


Death, Feelings, and Other Inconveniences

by Skierunner



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: About as chronological as TCW, Angst, CC-1010 | Fox is a Little Shit, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Drink, CC-5052 | Bly is a Cinnamon Roll, CT-7567 | Rex Needs a Hug, Canon Divergent, Clone Centric, Clones are Mandalorians fight me, Cody volunteers, Combat Injuries, F/M, Faked Death, Fox is a Mess, Gen, Humor, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi aren't evil but they do have Problems and it's time someone called em out on their shit, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Mistaken Death, Multi, Multilingual cussing, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Rated for violence and themes of war, Suicidal Ideation, War sucks, You will Work for your happy ending, and trauma, because clones deserve better god dammit, chat fic elements, clone culture, internalized ableism, just a lot of death, military culture, oh god the trauma, real death, when your love language is emancipation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skierunner/pseuds/Skierunner
Summary: On the heels of the Battle of Umbara, Cody is no stranger to war-time deaths. No one's immune to it. So when General Kenobi is assassinated, it's just another name on his long list of Remembrances. Now, the coming back to life bit-- yeah, he doesn't have a procedure for that.-The Clone Wars, through the eyes of the troopers who fought for the Republic until they learned to fight for themselves.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-5052 | Bly & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Riyo Chuchi & CC-1010 | Fox
Comments: 156
Kudos: 325





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote it to where context should tell you what the mando'a words are, but translations are at the end if you want 'em.

“I am still alive,” Cody says the moment he awakes, voice dry and cracking. He groans, turning over in his bunk. His mouth tastes vile. Must’ve drank last night. He sits up with a sigh. Right. The _Kote Kyr’am_ for the ones lost on Umbara.

“But you are dead.” His bare feet hit the cold deck and he recoils a bit. Drank _and_ slept in the nude. Sloppy. He shakes his head and gets up. His hand brushes over the _beskar_ plaque on the bulkhead on his way to the ‘fresher, etched names of the fallen covering the entire face.

“I remember you.” The 'fresher helps the taste and smell, but doesn’t fix the migraine beginning to build behind his eyes. He automatically reaches for the medicine bottle and frowns when he realizes it’s empty. A trip to Bones it is.

“So you are eternal.” He suits up, reciting the designations of his batch brothers that never made it off of Kamino. No one had names back then. “1241, 1953, 2244, 3001.”

He turns off his vocoder and UI-- too bright, too loud with this migraine-- and continues his remembrances from within the silent confines of his helmet. It always takes a long time to go through the _vode_ who fell on Geonosis, anyway. More had names by then, mostly Mandalorian words. “Ashi, Ehn, Cin, 6211.”

After Geonosis, the names quickly shifted to Basic when they learned that their Jedi and the Republic at large had no love for Mandalorians. Sometimes he wishes he was still Kote and not Cody, but then his General would say something like “Good man, Cody,” and the resentment would be swallowed up by fierce pride.

“Flatfoot, 7333, Vince, Kilo.”

The med bay is empty, their wounded already offloaded to the Jedi Temple when they first made it back to Coruscant. Bones is there with Giggles, who is looking uncharacteristically grim. Their heads snap to him when he enters and they render courtesies, but are talking before he can even put them at ease. _55-9090, North, Parrot, Jawbone,_ he recites mentally.

“Commander, we didn’t think you’d be here--”

“--at the Temple, requested you be there, too.”

Cody frowns and removes his helmet. _8000, 0031, 7989, Snow._ “One at a time.”

Giggles looks to Bones. “They’re holding the funeral ceremony at the Temple. It’ll be tight, but if you leave now you should be able to make it.”

“What funeral?” Another to add to the list, then. _Stitches, 2383, Wilder, 1474._ Probably one of their critically injured that didn’t make it through the night cycle.

Both soldiers blanche. Cody’s been in this war too long to dread whichever name they’re about to say and the grief never leaves him anyway. “Just say it.”

“...General Kenobi’s.”

_Lancer, 9335, Waxer, Jun._

_Kenobi._

\---

"You're… taking this better than I thought you would." Rex says slowly, nursing his drink as they sit together in a secluded corner of 79’s Bar.

"We're at war," he counters, and Rex is kind enough not to mention the hoarse edge to his voice. "This isn’t new. Our brothers die every day fighting for the Republic."

"He wasn't a brother."

Cody snorts. "No. Not a brother. But he was a general. He signed up for this." He squints at his glass of liquor, sniffing it experimentally. "More than _we_ did anyway."

Rex doesn't say anything, just takes a sip of his drink, but his concerned eyes never leave Cody's face and it makes his skin crawl.

"It's… not the death I wanted for him," he admits. "He deserved to die on a real battlefield, with me and the 212th by his side. Not by a two-credit assassin who got a lucky shot." He snarls the last of the sentence, drowning the bitterness with a swig of alcohol.

The anger seems to calm Rex, ironically enough. "Yeah. I think he would've preferred that."

The conversation wanders for a bit. They talk about other things-- the headaches of command, the never-ending logistical nightmares, the latest antics their units have gotten up to-- but the topic keeps pulling at him and it’s only a matter of time before he brings up Kenobi’s death again.

"You know they didn't even call me? I missed the funeral."

“ _Kot_.” The prayer comes out sounding more like a curse as Rex taps his wrist in solidarity.

“It just-- doesn’t--” He sighs and swipes a hand over his face. “It doesn’t make sense. I know clones are an afterthought at best, but I’m the Marshal Commander and he is-- was-- the High General. That’s _critical_ information for me to know, I shouldn’t have to find out from my karking _medics_.”

“Maybe it has to do with the investigation?” Rex suggests.

He hums dismissively. “If they thought I was a suspect or complicit, they should’ve taken me into custody.”

“Well, sure, but I meant that, because the two of you are so close--”

He throws up his hands. “Then they should’ve taken all our correspondence! I checked-- no one’s even put in a request for transcripts.”

Rex chuckles a little nervously. “Well, I doubt the things they want to know would be in official correspondence.”

Cody frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like…” Rex peers closely at him before shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Cody side-eyes him but lets it go. Umbara was especially hard on Rex. “Do you know how that’s going? The investigation? Skywalker’s heading it, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, him and Tano. They already caught the _kyramud_.”

“Did Skywalker kill him?” Cody asks dispassionately, none of the undercurrents of envy surfacing in his voice.

“No, he’s been taken into custody. Awaiting trial.”

Cody drinks, long and slow. “Well. There’s that.’

“...You’re not thinking about breaking in to, er, ‘make his eyes water’?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, that phrase sounds terrible in Basic.”

Rex shrugs, forcefully nonchalant. “I mean… I’m just saying. I could cover for you. If you need it.”

“You’re serious,” Cody observes with no small amount of shock. He laughs. “You’ve been spending too much time with Skywalker. Not everyone is unhinged enough to risk their own lives to strike out at a guy _already in custody_.”

Rex goes dead silent, avoiding his eyes. Cody’s confused at first, until the realization hits him like a blaster-bolt to the chest-- Pong Krell was killed in his cell by one of Rex’s own men not three cycles ago.

“I’m sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. I know Dogma--”

“It was supposed to be me.”

Cody sets down his glass with a metallic _clink_. “...What?”

“It was supposed to be _me_. We released Dogma, and I had Krell at blaster-point. I told him to get to his knees and I… It was supposed to be _me_ , but I-- I couldn’t.”

He blinks, internalizing the idea that Rex nearly shot his own commanding officer. “You did the right thing.”

“No!” Rex all but shouts. “ _Dogma_ did the right thing! How many _vode_ died because of Krell? Entire regiments fell while under his command!”

Other clones are starting to look their way. Cody leans in and hisses, “Keep your voice down!”

Rex sucks in a calming breath, letting it out slowly. The other patrons return to their own conversations. “I just can’t get his words out of my head.”

“Who, Dogma’s?”

“Krell’s. I couldn’t understand how he could do that-- how any _jetii_ could betray us like that. He said he ‘wasn’t naive enough to be a Jedi anymore’, but General Skywalker entrusted us to him!” Rex looks at him with wide eyes. “And if Skywalker, powerful as he is, can’t tell the difference between a real _jetii_ and something like Krell then I don’t… I just don’t know.”

“Skywalker might be powerful, but he’s--” Impulsive, emotional, _married to a Senator._ “Young.”

“The 212th was with us.” _Kenobi trusted him, too_ , goes unsaid. “Cody. What if… What if the _jetiise_ \--”

Fear seizes him and he holds up a fist, the battle-sign for _halt._ “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not reporting a _vod_ for treason today.”

There’s a moment where he can see Rex wrestling with himself, weighing the consequences against the need to be heard, and Cody dreads dreads dreads that the need will win. It almost makes him sick-- but then Rex inclines his head.

“As you say, _Alor_.”

He flinches. “Don’t call me that.”

Rex stares at him, his eyes burning with unexpressed anger and grief. “You can’t tell me we’re not _aliit_. You can’t.”

“And I won’t. But that doesn’t make me--” he cuts himself off, not wanting to even say the word. “I’m Marshal Commander. That’s it.”

Rex frowns in disapproval and… disappointment? “Use whatever title you want. It doesn’t change what you do, what you _are_ for the _vode_. No one else is looking out for us at the top.” 

He lets the silence extend, but Rex doesn’t break their gaze and Cody’s the first to look away. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Rex downs the rest of his drink in one and drops a handful of credits on the table. Some are as shiny as their new recruits, and some are marred with grime and scratches. They’re all he can stare at as he listens to Rex walk away. He looks up when he hears the footsteps grow louder again. Rex doesn’t retake his seat, just gives him a hard look. “Out of all of us, you used to embody _ramikadyc_ the most. I just hope you can find that spirit again. Before it’s too late for us.”

Cody orders another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cody recites the Mandalorian Daily Remembrance at the beginning, a tradition of reciting the names of those who've passed on. 
> 
> _Kote Kyr'am_ \- lit. "glory death", the Mandalorian death ceremony for warriors who died fighting impossible odds, so obviously it applies to all clones.  
>  _beskar_ \- Mandalorian steel  
>  _vod/vode_ \- sibling/siblings, used to refer to other clones  
>  _kote_ \- glory, what a name to choose for yourself Cody (headcanon only)  
>  _kot_ \- strength; this particular prayer was created by Project0506, whose Soft Wars series (https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775) inspired several headcanons/characterizations in here  
>  _kyramud_ \- assassin/killer  
>  _jetii/jetiise_ \- Jedi (singular/plural)  
>  _Alor_ \- several translations, most focusing on the concept of "leader", used here to indicate the had of a formal Clan, which Rex considers the Vode to be.  
>  _aliit_ \- family/clan  
>  _ramikadyc_ \- an attitude of being able to do, endure, and achieve anything; a determined, focused person.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a at the end

Cody’s on the bridge, fighting with the nat-born officers.

“This is ridiculous,” he says. “It’s been a ten-day! How has a new High General not been appointed? The 501st is already preparing to redeploy, do you expect the 212th to just sit here and gather dust?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Commander.” The ensign is nervous and Cody isn’t even really angry yet. Is this what nat-borns are like without stress inoculation?

He grips his helmet a little tighter at his side. “Tell me you’ve at least submitted an exception to policy that will allow us to rejoin the fight! If the Council wants to take their sweet time when there’s a _war_ going on, then they can--”

“Attention on deck!”

Cody heel-turns and snaps-to in one smooth motion, racking his brain for what VIP could be visiting them unannounced. Of all the people he thought could walk through the door, a ghost didn’t even rate.

“Good morning, everyone!” The phantom says, blue eyes crinkled with cheer and suddenly Cody knows what it feels like to be spaced. It’s a freezing vacuum sucking out all semblance of breath while an infinite pressure rends him apart from the inside. He couldn’t move if he wanted to, and he’s certain if he screamed there would be no sound.

No one on deck says a word. No one even _twitches_. 

Ginger brows crease in confusion. “Well, carry on then. Didn’t mean to cause a stir.”

The freezing vacuum disappears in an instant as Cody’s blood pressure skyrockets. Cause a kriffing _stir?!_

For better or worse, the ensign speaks before he can order his rage into a comprehensible language. “General Kenobi! We thought you were, um, that is to say--”

Kenobi laughs, amusement lacing his tone. “I think you’ll find reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

Not for karking long, if Cody has anything to say about it.

“Please,” Kenobi encourages with a winning smile. “Go back to business. We have orders for the Outer Rim. Let’s not bereave the Separatists of our company for long.”

Reluctantly, the bridge crew turns back to their stations, but they glance back frequently, their eyes darting between their newly resurrected High General and their Commander, firmly rooted in place. Cody tries to will himself to speak, to say ‘Welcome back, sir’, then drive on to business like the professional he was. He tries _so hard_ , but his jaw remains wired shut.

Kenobi’s walking towards him, concern or caution flitting like shadows in his eyes. “Cody, I’m glad to see you. I hope no one got into _too_ much trouble while on shore leave.”

He finally manages to wrench open his mouth, the words ‘Just you, sir’ ready on his tongue, but nothing comes out. He’s suddenly aware that he’s shaking his head minutely.

Kenobi frowns and what he says next is soft, meant only for him. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but the mission required it. I know you’ll understand.” Then his General puts a hand on his shoulder, like he’s done thousands of times before, but no sense of pride or accomplishment accompanies it this time.

He stares at the hand as comprehension snaps into place. Kenobi, the High General for the Grand Army of the Republic, Jedi Master, 212th Attack Battalion Commander, _his jetii_ , had faked his death.

His ears are ringing.

“Cody?”

Mechanically, he lifts his helmet and firmly puts it on. He leaves the bridge without saying a word.

\---

He manages to keep busy for the rest of the cycle. After all, they’re deploying to the Outer Rim. There’s plenty of work to go around. He almost regrets being so kriffing good at his job, though, when everything is complete before shift change. By the time he makes it back to his quarters, they’ve made the jump to hyperspace.

He stands in the middle of his small room, not sure what to do, but not yet willing to think about-- about…

He opens and closes his hands and breathes through his nose. Routine. Just. Fall back on routine. He systematically removes his armor, checking it over for any nicks or scuffs he might’ve acquired through the day, but it’s spotless. Fine. He’ll just… install the new antenna. He’s been meaning to get around to that.

Unfortunately, it’s simply a matter of snapping the old one off and snapping the new one on. Damn modular armor sets. He carefully puts his helmet on its shelf, pausing when he catches his reflection in the visor. He looks… haggard.

Maybe a trip to the ‘fresher would help. He’s already stripped down to his blacks and they could use a wash, too. He walks to the back of his room to the ‘fresher stall, automatically touching the _beskar_ plaque as he goes--

He stops, eyes fixed on the burnished plate of metal. It took him an hour to scratch in the last name. The ‘o’, especially, was a kriff and a half. An hour and Kenobi isn’t even dead. His hand curls into a fist, still pressed against the plaque. So, what, he just scratches out the name, now? Or should he leave it up there, for when the _di’kut_ ’s luck inevitably runs out? Hell, why doesn’t he just write everyone’s name on there and save himself the heartache? His name can be up top. There’s no way _he’s_ making it out of this thrice-damned war alive. And once he marches away, there’s no telling how many of the GAR will follow.

His breath is becoming a little shallower, but he’s already committed to this line of thought. Rex wouldn’t last long without him. Not because of any incompetence on his part; the stress of trying to keep Kenobi, Skywalker, _and_ Tano alive without him there to balance the load would simply take its toll. At least aneurysms are quick. Without his weekly bitch sessions, Fox would probably murder one of the politicians constantly hounding his office on Coruscant and get himself killed in the process. Bly would just bury himself deeper into his relationship with Secura, star-crossed lovers that they are. Gree is sensible, which meant he’d get killed in the most senseless way possible. Probably a stray bullet on a cleared battlefield. Wolffe would--

Actually, Wolffe would live just to spite them all, the cynical karking bastard.

A knock interrupts his morbid form of entertainment. He lets his fist finally fall from the plaque, wondering if this was a visit that would end with him getting kitted up again. He glances at his armor, which is probably still cooling from his body heat, and decides that if he answers in his blacks the _vod_ will get the hint and come back in the morning. He answers the door.

It’s Kenobi.

Should’ve put on the armor.

“Cody,” he smiles.

Cody doesn’t return it.

Kenobi clears his throat. “I was hoping to catch you before you turned in. Do you have a moment to chat?”

Still no response. He’d get fired if he closed the door in his face, right? Court-martialed, minimum.

“I, erm, brought tea?” Kenobi lifts a tray, a large teapot and two cups balanced on it.

“Can it wait until morning, sir?” They’re the first words he’s said to him since his ‘death’, but Kenobi grins as if Cody’s just confessed his undying love for holo-dramas.

“Afraid not. This blend does _not_ hold its flavor well.” Kenobi’s smile slips. “And… this is a conversation I’d rather not have in front of the men.”

“It’s a conversation I’d rather not have at all.” The words are out before Cody can think better of them and he stiffens in anticipation of a reprimand.

Instead, Kenobi looks down. “I… understand. I’ve put you through a terrible ordeal. I don’t expect forgiveness--”

“Good.”

Kenobi brings his eyes back up to Cody’s face, pain twisting his features. It brings out the bags under his eyes.

Footsteps and indistinct chatting interrupts their silence and Cody sighs. If they were going to do this, they might as well do it where troopers couldn’t happen across their conversation. “Come in.” He turns his back to Kenobi, sitting on his bunk so Kenobi could take the single chair in his room.

Kenobi sits. “Tea?” He asks, pouring a cup.

“No.” Kenobi draws his arm back, having already extended it to pass Cody his share. “Thank you.”

The clay teapot and spare cup make no sound when they’re placed on his desk.

“I…” Kenobi begins. “Sense that things are tense between us.”

“Jedi powers of perception still accounted for, then.”

Kenobi has the gall to chuckle. “I missed that. Your dry humor.”

Cody scowls.

“Right.” Kenobi takes a bracing breath. “I’ve come to apologize. Even though the mission required it, the secrecy was a breach of trust. I’ve hurt, well, _many_ people in the course of duty and I don’t even have anything to show for it. We didn’t capture Dooku. I don’t know if Anakin will ever forgive me, but I really thought… I hoped that you, of all people, would understand.”

Cody listens with growing anger until the end, when it morphs into absolute horror. “You didn’t tell Skywalker?”

Kenobi perks up, somehow misinterpreting his shock as… what, understanding? “Exactly. The mission required absolute secrecy and Anakin’s reaction is what really sold the whole operation to the Separatists, enabling--”

“You’re an idiot.”

Kenobi gapes at him. “Pardon?”

“An absolute _di’kut_.”

“I _do_ speak mando’a, you know,” he responds with irritation.

“Good.”

Kenobi waits for him to continue and narrows his eyes in frustration when he doesn’t. “I don’t know what you want from me-- what _anyone_ wants! I didn’t have a choice. It was the Council’s decision that I carry out the mission--”

“Kark. The. Mission,” he grits out. “Skywalker, _your_ padawan--”

“Former padawan,” Kenobi corrects, which Cody ignores.

“--Has been struggling this _entire_ war, teetering on the edge of Darkness. I see it, Rex sees it, his blasted padawan sees it, I _know_ you must see it. Someone as passionate and insecure as him has no place in a war where he has to constantly question who to trust, yet you would have him doubt one of the only stabilizing relationships he has? If it wasn’t for the Senator and Tano, I honestly think he would have Fallen after your death--”

“What Senator?”

The petty interruption is annoying. “Amidala, obviously.”

Kenobi huffs. “Well, it’s not obvious to me. What’s she have to do with it?”

Cody stares, heart frozen in his chest. No. No, he can’t be that oblivious. “They’re married.”

He’s appalled to learn that, yes, his _jetii_ is absolutely that oblivious. Kenobi is blinking rapidly. “That can’t be right.”

Rex’s voice rings in his ears: _If the jetiise can’t tell the difference between their own and Krell…_ He covers the fear with anger. “Are you serious? Are all _jetiise_ this blind or is it just you?”

“It’s not blindness if I’m not seeing something that _isn’t there_.”

“There’s literally a marriage certificate on file!”

Kenobi blanches. “What?”

“Commander Fox found it his second week on the job. We assumed it was an open secret, like Ki-Adi Mundi’s marriages.” He rubs a hand over his buzzcut, outraged at Kenobi’s continued disbelief. “They’re not at all subtle! Sergeant Appo found them getting intimate in a supply closet, for kark’s sake!”

Now Kenobi looks positively ill. His knuckles are white around his teacup. “Master Mundi’s marriages are endorsed by the Council,” he says distantly.

“Attachments forbidden except when it’s a Council member, then?” He’s not sure where the bitterness comes from. He’s not exactly close to Skywalker, so it can’t be on his behalf. Maybe it’s sympathy pains for Rex, who’s had to cover for Skywalker and his wife _several_ times. Maybe for Bly, whose _jetii_ is only a Knight.

Kenobi shakes his head. “His species is endangered, they need every male possible to recover their population.”

“I didn’t realize you needed a marriage to reproduce.”

“Well, cultural mores require--”

“If the species is on the brink of extinction I doubt they can afford something as trivial as ‘cultural mores’.” Cody pauses. He’s already been more insubordinate in the past ten minutes than in the entirety of his life. Does he really want to push it further?

“Why wouldn’t Anakin _tell me_?” Kenobi mutters into his tea.

_Rangir._ “Deception to the enemy is one thing, sir. Even deceiving your allies can be forgiven eventually. But deceiving yourself?” He shakes his head, deliberately ignoring the metallic tang of irony on his tongue.

“I’m _not_ lying to myself!” Kenobi protests. “I really don’t know why Anakin wouldn’t consult me before committing to such an ill-advised arrangement or why he wouldn’t trust me afterwards when--”

“Really,” he deadpans. “You don’t know why he wouldn’t trust _you_ , the man who used him, who inflicted untold grief and pain on him to ‘sell’ a spice-brained mission. Tell me another one, sir.”

“You make it sound so harsh,” Kenobi says weakly.

“Try living it.”

Kenobi contemplates his teacup. “You are being especially candid with me tonight.”

Cody doesn’t respond at first, not until the silence has stretched for more than a minute. “Why are you here, sir?”

“Why don’t you ever call me by my name?” He asks instead of answering. “High General and Marshal Commander are technically equal ranks.” 

Cody won’t play those games. 

Kenobi gives up sooner rather than later, sighing softly. “Is there... _anything_ I can do to heal this breach of trust?”

“I don’t know,” Cody answers honestly.

Kenobi nods, and for the briefest moment Cody can see the future unfurl before him. Kenobi never mending the bridges he burned as Rako Hardeen. Skywalker floundering without a mentor, reaching out for support, finding the _wrong kind_. Who would Tano choose? Would she get caught in the middle? Or maybe she _and_ Kenobi would follow Skywalker, disillusioned with the Order, as Krell was.

Kenobi mutters some trite gratitude for Cody’s time, collecting his tea set and moving towards the door.

His stomach churns. Would he be like Rex, if Kenobi defected? Not able to pull the trigger, even in the face of treachery? The image is clear and so sharp it could cut. A battle in a canyon, Kenobi’s back to him, Cody giving the order to fire--

His door clangs shut. Alone in his room, Cody stares at the _beskar_ plate that will inevitably bear all their names. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _beskar_ \- Mandalorian steel  
>  _di'kut_ \- idiot, useless, lit. "one who forgets their pants"  
>  _jetii/jetiise_ \- Jedi (singular/plural)  
>  _rangir_ \- to hell with it
> 
> Btw, totally bullshitting on High General and Marshal Commander being equal ranks. In theory, this could be a possibility because the Jedi are supposed to be acting as military advisors in conjunction with the GAR's pre-existing command structures. This would mean that Cody and Obi-Wan would be part of two different chains of command despite working in the same unit. This *can* happen IRL, but has no basis in canon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations at the end

There's nothing like the threat of imminent death to help him rediscover an all-consuming, burning desire to _live_.

Cody sprints through the battlefield, sliding underneath the AAT and slapping two sticking grenades on its underbelly as momentum carries him to the other side. He barely makes it behind a massive boulder before it explodes and his UI lights up with high temperature warnings. The alerts disappear when the blast wave passes him and he’s off to the front line, jumping into the trench next to Crys, Kenobi’s lightsaber bouncing against his hip the whole way.

“Nice work, Commander!” Crys shouts.

“You seen the General?” He shouts back.

Crys responds in the negative and Cody runs further into their lines, head on a swivel to find the _utreekov_. An obscene explosion plumes over the western ridge and he pivots, knowing he’ll find Kenobi there.

Or what’s left of him.

He crests the ridge, legs burning, and stops, desperately searching for dust-colored robes and red hair.

And does he find him.

If the ancient Mandalorian war gods ever took a human form, it’d be Kenobi in battle. Even unarmed, he commands the flow of combat, viciously carving a swathe of destruction in the legion surrounding him. He throws out an arm and a column of droids collapses under the weight of the Force, oil spurting from severed fuel lines, electronic shrieks piercing the air. A commando droid swings its bladed arm at Kenobi’s neck, but his _jetii_ simply arches backwards, the vibroblade passing harmlessly over him and instead connecting with another droid in the melee. Sparks fly from the collapsed droids, igniting the oil slicking the ground.

Cody unhooks the lightsaber from his side. “General!”

Kenobi whirls, his tabards flying out with the movement, and Cody’s mouth goes dry. His hair’s disheveled, bangs dangling over his forehead and the nascent flames illuminate his _jetii_ ’s face, the harsh shadows intensifying his violent snarl, and his eyes--

Cody throws the saber. It sails through the air and lands directly in Kenobi’s outstretched hand, no doubt nudged by the Force. There’s another droid coming up Kenobi’s six, taking advantage of his distraction. Reflexively, Cody raises his blaster and shoots-- it drops in a pile of smoking limbs. The grin Kenobi gives him is feral and from there he’s lost. The rest of the fight blurs in a haze of adrenaline and the electrifying thrill of battle. It’s not until he’s staring down at the field of scrap metal and scorched earth, breath harsh even through his helmet’s regulator, that his sense of time reasserts itself.

His body seems to pulse with every heartbeat, every rush of blood through his veins an affirmation of life. A confirmation of his enemy’s end and his own victory. This is why he claimed _Kote_ , back when no two clones had the same name and he had to fight for his right to it. He didn’t ask for glory. He didn’t earn it. He _demanded_ it, and today it was his.

Kenobi isn’t as badly winded as he is, but even he’s a little breathless when he joins Cody, squeezing his shoulder in greeting.

“Sir,” Cody says between pants. “I’m putting in a formal recommendation that all Jedi dummy-tie their sabers to their person.”

Kenobi laughs. “But Cody, how else will I lure you to my side?”

He hesitates, glancing at Kenobi warily. Many of his brothers talk about how bloodlust often carries over into an entirely different kind of lust. Kenobi must be especially prone to it-- he’ll flirt with anyone in a fight. Especially Sith.

...Especially him.

He doesn’t bother clearing his throat. The vocoder would have filtered it out. “I suggest we go back to the 212th, sir. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you’ve managed to live another day.”

The mirth in Kenobi’s eyes dims. “Right. Of course. Lead on, Marshal Commander.”

He doesn’t feel like Kote anymore.

\---

Four cycles later, Cody decides that he’ll simply underline Kenobi’s name every time he “dies”. He’s been avoiding writing his _vode_ ’s names directly beneath the _jetii_ ’s, just to make sure there’s enough room. He’s always been a forward thinker like that.

He strides to Kenobi's side, gait meticulously even and smooth. When he speaks, his tone is almost as neutral and featureless as a long-neck’s. Nothing betrays the seething rage setting his insides on fire. “Sir, can I have a moment of your time to discuss your impending mission?” Look at that, even remembered his manners.

Kenobi hesitates at the holodisplay, his hand frozen mid-stroke on his beard. Cody keeps his face blank. “I’m set to depart in an hour,” he says cautiously.

“I hate to think I’d keep you that long, sir.” None of the venom he wants to spit slips out there, either. He mentally pats himself on the back.

Grudgingly, Kenobi nods and follows him into the nearest empty conference room. Cody sets the room to “Busy”, gently places his helmet on the table, and leans forward, hands flat on the mirror-shined surface.

“You can’t seriously be considering this,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Across from him, Kenobi wipes a hand over his tired face. “The Council has decided--”

“I didn’t ask about the Council!” Calmer, needs to be calmer. Deep breath. Eye contact. “ _You_ can’t seriously be considering this.”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t see what other options I have.”

Cody slams a hand on the table and Kenobi flinches in surprise. “You can’t possibly tell me that you see _no alternatives_ for traveling, unaccompanied, to a neutral system to confront a Sith powerful enough to murder your master?”

Kenobi strokes his beard, eyes turning speculative. “Master Yoda suspects that I won’t be alone in this endeavor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A wry, mischievous smile, one that always ends up with someone in the med bay. Typically Kenobi. “The Force provides,” he says cryptically.

The blasé attitude is _really_ starting to piss him off. “The Force _provides_?” he asks incredulously. “Is it the Force that provides cover when you try to single-handedly destroy an enemy column? Is it the Force that stitches you up every time a trooper has to drag your unconscious body from the front line? What, exactly, has the Force provided you?”

“...It brought me you.”

He narrows his eyes. “You think _I’m_ going with you? I have to stay and direct 7th Corps! _One_ of us has to do their job.”

“That’s not--”

“You can’t tell me this is anything but _jarela_. There are easier ways to get out of paperwork than death, sir.”

Kenobi rolls his eyes, as if _he_ was being the unreasonable one. “Well, I can’t very well _not_ go. I’d be openly disobeying the Council, I’d effectively be resigning from the Order.”

“At least you _can!_ ” No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Cody freezes.

The shock on Kenobi’s face is fleeting and when he speaks, it’s painfully gentle. “Do you wish to leave the GAR?”

“I-- I…” But the words choke in his throat and his thoughts are deadlocked. Somewhere, in a corner of his mind that he very carefully ignores, something cracks.

Kenobi pulls out a chair and sits. He steeples his hands and presses his fingertips to his mouth. “Do you wish to leave the GAR or,” he takes a deep breath, “do you want me to leave 7th Corps?”

Leave? Him, leave? _Kenobi_ , leave? “What?”

“I know it must be difficult working with me after the Hardeen mission. I thought I could keep my personal feelings from affecting you, but even now…” He shoots Cody a sympathetic glance and he has _no idea why_. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can seek reassignment.”

“ _No._ ” He’s never felt panic as strongly as right then, not for even the closest shave with death, when his face was split to the bone, bleeding on the sands of Geonosis. “You-- you can’t. You’re the High General.” 

The laugh is empty of humor. “I am far from irreplaceable.”

“‘Far from irreplaceable?’ You’re not a rank and file soldier, Kenobi, you’re a general. Not just any officer, not any Jedi, you’re the _High General_ for the entire GAR, you’re not expendable!”

“Everyone is expendable in war,” Kenobi says in a tired tone.

The tips of his fingers go numb. “ _Everyone_?” He hisses. “What happened to ‘All lives are precious’? Or are some more precious than others? Do us _clones_ even rate? They didn’t for Krell.”

Kenobi looks sticken. “Cody, no, of course--”

“What is _wrong_ with you _jetiise_?” He asks, voice cracking. “We were made _for you_ , we were trained _for you_ , we fight _for you!_ It shouldn’t matter what we think or feel about you or the Republic or the war or-- or _us_. Why would you ask me to abandon it all? Why would you offer to leave? How could you give me that choice?”

His _jetii_ goes quiet and still, clearly thinking it over. The gap in conversation grows and grows and it’s all Cody can do to not writhe in his skin or scream or sprint from the room. Just when he can’t take it anymore, when his arm darts to snatch his helmet with the intent of fleeing, Kenobi speaks.

“It’s not me giving you the choice, Cody,” he says. “It’s always been there. It always will. All I’ve done is draw attention to it.”

In that distant corner of his mind, hidden behind layers and layers of lies and denial, something shatters.

Kenobi stands and comes round the table. “When I get back from this mission, and I _will_ come back to you, you can give me your decision. Whether you want me to leave 7th Corps, or you want to leave the GAR, or whatever else you decide, all you have to do is tell me and I will do everything in my power to see it done.”

It takes him a few tries before he can successfully swallow. “What if I asked you to do something against the Council?” he asks hoarsely.

Kenobi’s smile is sad. “Cody, if you gave the word, I would leave the Order.”

He couldn’t mean that. He can’t mean that. Not in the way he’s thinking, not in the way he’s heard Kenobi talk about the Duchess of Mandalore, not… No. He’s just prioritizing justice over the Order. He’s simply expressing the desire to do the right thing even at personal cost.

Kenobi lifts his hand, the beginnings of the familiar shoulder-squeeze, but he stops halfway. His arm drops back to his side. “Think it over,” he says and then he’s leaving. Kenobi pauses at the door, turning to face him. “And for the sake of clarity, I mean it. _Ni kyr’tayl gai kar’ta_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _utreekov_ \- fool  
>  _jetii/jetiise_ \- Jedi (singular/plural)  
>  _kote_ \- glory  
>  _vod/vode_ \- sibling/siblings  
>  _jarela_ \- adjective for root _jaro_ , a death wish, insane act of reckless stupidity  
>  _Ni kyr'tayl gai kar'ta_ \- okay, i did my best to cobble this phrase together. it's based off of "Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad" which is an adoption vow that literally translates as "I know your name as my child". Kar'ta means heart/soul (not really distinguished in mando'a), so the idea is for this phrase to read as "I know your name as my heart". There *is* a phrase for "i love you" in mando'a, but I very specifically chose not to use that here. My intent is to cover the why in the next (and most likely final) chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when i thought this would only be 3 chapters? lol  
> also i appear to have hit my angst limit rip
> 
> translations at the end

Cody lets his feet carry him away, mind and body on autopilot. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, but he’s not surprised at where he ends up. When he enters the sim room the squad in the chute doesn’t notice him. Not at first. 

Trapper’s in the middle of a hype-speech when he catches sight of him. The trooper nearly falls over himself bringing the squad to attention. His _words_ certainly fall over themselves. “Commander! We-- er-- we weren’t expecting you.”

Cody gives Trapper an exhausted look.

“Which isn’t a problem! Of course, ha. Ha ha. Haaaaaa.”

“What sim are you running.” He frowns at his own statement. It was supposed to be a question.

“Uhhhhh well, you see, sir, we were actually, um, improvising a, er, _composite_ exercise.”

Which means they sliced the sim computers to run unauthorized hybridizations of conflicting exercises, banned for the unpredictable and often dangerous requirements they impose on troopers. Great.

“Is this ‘composite exercise’ the one that sent three _vod_ to the medbay last ten-day?” He asks.

“Uhhhhhh.”

He unhooks a training blaster from the wall. “Run it.”

\---

None of the other troopers make it to the end of the sim. The seven troopers are shot, stabbed, or fall out of bounds. One is decapitated. Simulated, of course. Not Cody, though. He makes it to the end.

He’s only distantly aware of his ragged breathing, opening his fist so the droid’s crushed head falls to the ground with a _thunk_. Its body is somewhere over the battlement. He thinks. The sim room’s a karking mess. Reprogrammed droids litter the floor, most in parts. One is impaled on the ceiling. He doesn’t remember doing that.

Looking down at himself, he’s frustrated to see that there’s mechanical fluid all over his armor. That shit smells and it takes _forever_ to get rid of it. There’s some scratches on his armor, too, but nothing major. At most, it would take him two cycles to get it back up to inspection standards.

And he still doesn’t feel any kriffing better.

“ _Force_ ,” someone swears.

Cody looks up. He forgot there was anyone else here, but Trapper’s entire squad is lined up on the spectator line, eyes wide.

Trapper coughs. “Got something on your mind, sir?”

“The training dummies don’t,” Riot says, staring at a lobotomized droid.

“Transitive property,” Porg says with a sage nod. The rest of the squad stares at him. “He took minds off droids to take his mind off things.”

The squad groans and Trapper cuffs him on the head. “Shut up, Porg.”

Cody walks towards the exit, boots crunching on shards of metal. The squad locks up, standing at parade-perfect attention. He hands the training blaster to Trapper. “Clean this up.”

“Yes, sir!”

He leaves, going directly to his quarters. He’s got one last idea. One last resort.

\---

The call only rings twice before he picks up.

“Wolffe.” It’s just voice, no video for this call. Cody doesn’t think he can make it through any other way.

He takes a deep breath, propping his elbows on his desk. “Hypothetically,” he begins, carefully casual. “What would happen if I was no longer Marshal Commander?”

The line is quiet, but that’s not unusual for Wolffe. Cody swears he takes the time to calculate the minimum number of words he can use while still getting his message across. When Wolffe has finally optimized his word count, he speaks in his usual growl. “...I’m calling Bly.”

Cody reels back. “What? No! Why would you call Bly?”

“I don’t do relationships.”

“I’m not asking about relationships!”

A ping warns him that someone’s joined the call. “Hey guys,” Bly greets. “What’s up?”

Cody seizes the opportunity while Wolffe is still adding up words. “Misdial, Bly, please disregard.”

“Bly, disregard his order to disregard,” Wolffe counters blandly. “I called you.”

“Um, okay.” Bly’s clearly bewildered. “Why?”

Wolffe, the karking bastard, doesn’t give him the chance to misdirect further. “Cody wants to know what would happen if he quit Marshal Commander.”

“I’m not quitting!” He argues. “It’s only a hypothetical, I’m developing an SOP in the event of incapacitation or--”

“Stars above,” Bly whispers. “Kenobi confessed.”

“Yup.”

“No!” Cody shouts.

“This is incredible,” Bly says. Then, with resolve: “Rex needs to be here.”

“Rex does _not_ need to be--”

Too late, another ping and Rex is in the call.

“A little busy!” The only _vod_ not on his shitlist answers. There’s sirens in the background. “Is this an emergency?”

“Kenobi confessed!” Bly crows

“Bantha-shit on a stick, he _did_? Cody!”

“No!”

“He’s writing an SOP for the replacement Marshal Commander.” Cody can _hear_ Wolffe’s smug smile.

“ _Haran_ , he _really_ did.” Cody flinches as feedback screeches from Rex’s mic. “Kark, they’ve breached the doors. Sorry, I’m gonna have to call you back. Congrats, Cody!” There’s a brief delay as Rex disconnects and they can hear a distant _Eat blaster, clankers!_ before the line finally goes dead.

Cody puts his face in his hands. If Rex lives, he’s joining the shitlist.

“Sooooo,” Bly draws out, almost giddy. “How did it happen? I want to know _everything_.”

“It _didn’t_ happen, what is wrong with you two--”

”Combat trauma,” Wolffe deadpans.

“I’m dating an empath,” Bly says cheerfully. “She’s attracted to positive emotions.”

Cody pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten. “Listen, this doesn’t have anything to do with Kenobi--”

“Ten credits says it does,” a new voice disagrees.

Oh, for the love of-- “Who the kark called _Fox_?!”

“No one called me,” Fox drawls. “I dialed in when I saw you pull Rex into your little group huddle.”

“Slow day?” Wolffe asks, tone a little too flat to be sympathetic.

Fox sniffs. “Quite the opposite. I’ve put the Chancellor on hold for this.”

Cody blanches. “ _Fox!_ ”

“His plans for galactic domination can wait ten minutes,” Fox says, casual treason _never_ beneath him. “Besides, my real _Alor_ needs help.”

There’s an obligatory pause, where everyone waits for Cody to spit fire and denial at the title. Hell, even Cody expects it of himself. He opens his mouth to do it, simply out of habit, but then closes it without a sound.

“Force,” Wolffe breathes. Cody doesn’t think he’s ever heard him shocked before.

“What did Kenobi _say?!_ ” Bly demands.

“Clear comms,” Fox snaps. “I’m patching us onto a more secure line.”

The call goes dead, but Cody doesn’t have enough time to breathe and recollect himself before Fox has pulled them all back in.

“ _Ni kyr’tayl gai kar’ta_ ,” Wolffe says solemnly.

“That’s…” Cody steels himself and prepares to face the firing squad. “That’s what he said.”

“ _That’s_ what woke you up?” Bly asks, disappointed. “That’s not romantic at all.”

“Bly, you’re an idiot,” Wolffe says flatly.

“Cody’s also an idiot! How do you _not_ consider that a confession?” Fox almost sounds indignant.

“Wait, what?” Bly asks. “It’s just the oath of allegiance.”

“Only if you’re a part of the _aliit_.”

“Fox is right,” Wolffe agrees. “Kenobi’s not _vode._ He’s declared intent.”

“Intent to what?”

Fox’s tone is as sly as his namesake. “You wanna answer that, Alor?”

Cody closes his eyes.

Fox continues, apparently not expecting an answer. “Kenobi’s educated in the Way. He knows that Mandalorians will date and love whoever they want, but they’ll only marry another Mandalorian. To marry outside is to become _dar’manda_.”

“So he declared his intent to follow the Way,” Bly realized, wonder in his voice. “To show he’s serious about courting.”

Cody panics. “He’s not courting--”

“I’ll call you guys back,” Bly interrupts. “I have to talk to Aayla.” A blip signals his departure.

“...He’s not courting me,” Cody finishes. He meant to say it impartially, a simple statement of fact, immutable as the law of thermodynamics or gravity or war. He has no idea how it came out so sad. He really doesn’t.

“Fox,” Wolffe growls. “Take the Chancellor off hold. Intercept Rex if necessary.”

“You’re not my real dad.” But the resistance is only habit, no spirit behind it.

“Fox.”

“Fine, but before I go, Cody,” Fox pauses and Cody braces himself for whatever dig he’s preparing. “ _Ni kyr’tayl gai kar’ta_.”

He sucks in a breath, not prepared for the genuine emotion behind the words. Fox hangs up, and then it’s just him and Wolffe.

“You asked what would happen if you were no longer Marshal Commander,” Wolffe says quietly. “I’m first in line, but I won’t take it. I’m not fighting for the Republic. Haven’t, since Ventress.”

“Then what are you fighting for?”

A pause where Cody knows Wolffe is shrugging indifferently. “The pack,” he says. “The general.”

Cody nods. He expected that.

“You?”

He thinks it over, but he’s spent so long ignoring that corner of his mind that it’s hard to actually look at. “...I’m not sure anymore.”

Wolffe gives a short _hm_. “I think you’ve been sure for a while now.”

Cody narrows his eyes at the call screen. “You’re angling for something.”

“I am.”

“I’m not Fox,” he warns. “I won’t treat treason like a joke.”

“Neither will I.”

“So you _want_ me to go rogue with the _vode_? Betray the Republic and the Jedi and everything we were made to be?”

“Is that what you’re planning?” Wolffe asks with naked interest.

“Answer the question.”

“If you wanted blind faith in the Republic and the _cause_ ,” Wolffe growls, “you would’ve called Gree. Everyone knows where I stand. The only reason I haven’t been Recycled is because of _buir_.”

Cody grimaces, but he knows he’s not the only one who’s wondered how Wolffe evaded the Kaminoans. _Buir_ , though? “Fett’s dead.”

“I only recognize one father. It’s not Fett.”

Ah. That should've been obvious. “...Did Koon adopt the whole 104th?”

“No,” Wolffe says. 

“Then--”

“I did,” he interrupts, all teeth and pride. “And _buir_ adopted me.”

Well, the ‘#1 Grandpa’ mug makes sense now. He almost wants to laugh at the mental image of General Plo Koon reading bedtime stories to his troopers. He almost _does_ when he realizes it’s probably not far from reality. The humor sours, though, when the war invades his daydream, Koon and his troopers reciting Remembrances after story time.

“What are we doing, Wolffe?” he asks, trying not to sound as lost as he feels.

“Plotting treason,” Wolffe says without missing a beat. Then he sounds annoyed. “Aren’t we? Cause if not, I’ve got paperwork to do.”

Cody rubs his face. “I need you to take this seriously.”

“I’m _dead_ serious,” Wolffe snaps. “ _You’re_ the one who hasn’t been taking this seriously.”

“How have I not--”

“More _vode_ die every day! More are decanted every day, and production _hasn’t stopped_. We don’t have citizenship, we don’t have rights, we aren’t even paid. _We_ were _bought_. There are no technicalities here, Alor. We are slaves. And you’ve done _nothing_.”

Cody feels like he’s been slapped. “What am I supposed to do?” He asks angrily. “I’m as much a--” his throat closes up and he changes tacks. “I’m in the same situation as everyone else!”

“You might only be acknowledging it _now_ ,” Wolffe snarls in response, “but you’ve been Alor for the entire war. You think the allegiance oath is only pretty words? You are the _vode_ ’s _kar’ta_. You are the aspiration for every _vod_ , the embodiment of what our _aliit_ means. And until today, that’s been--”

“Slaves,” Cody realizes, a cold pit of horror opening in his gut. He’s never railed against an order. Never condemned an incompetent _jetii_ general. Never questioned the Republic. And he’s the example the _vode_ follow.

“Slaves,” Wolffe agrees, the word roiling with rage.

 _Deception to the enemy is one thing, but deceiving yourself_? 

Cody pushes the memory away. He needs to know, needs to ask Wolffe-- “Why did you stay?”

“The pack wouldn’t have followed.” The words are aloof, but he can sense the grief behind them anyway.

“And you’d rather fight and die for them, than live free.” Cody says, understanding. 

And then _understanding_ , because isn’t that what he’s been doing? Fighting and waiting for death rather than abandoning the war to his _vode_? But he’s _Alor_. They don’t follow him because some Republic pontiff elected him to the position. They follow him because he’s Cody. Because he’s _Kote_.

“What are we going to do, leave with the war at its height?” He asks, because he’s no fool. “The Republic will come after us. So will the Separatists. They won’t want to risk us falling back into the fold.”

But even as he asks, ideas are crystallizing. Routes plotted, contingencies forming.

And Wolffe knows it. 

His _vod_ scoffs. “Are you a Marshal Commander or not? Logistics and strategy are for peons like me. _You_ define win states. So you tell _me_ , Alor. What’s our victory condition?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOP = standard operating procedures; basically a book of policies  
>  _haran_ \- hell  
>  _alor_ \- generally, leader; here, formal clan leader  
>  _Ni kyr'tayl gai kar'ta_ \- "I know your name as my heart/soul"; acts as an oath of allegiance when said by a clan member/ Mandalorian; acts as a statement of intent to follow the Way ~~with benefits~~  
>  _aliit_ \- clan/family  
>  _vod/vode_ \- sibling/siblings (also pretty much synonymous with clan for the clones)  
>  _dar'manda_ \- not Mandalorian; connotations of apostate, sorta?  
>  _buir_ \- parent  
>  _kar'ta_ \- heart/soul  
>  _jetii/jetiise_ \- Jedi (plural/singular)  
>  _kote_ \- glory


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS AND STORY HAS CHANGED.
> 
> This is no longer a pure Codywan fic cause the plot took a hard fucking left and ran away from me. Personally, I blame all of you for putting ideas in my head. Will we get back to Cody's POV and some sweet emotional resolution? Eventually, like, way down the road. I know this will be very disappointing for some folks and I offer my genuine apology for leading you on. That wasn't my goal or intent. For those who don't consider that a deal breaker, I hope you like the direction this takes. Current plan is to have each clone POV last four chapters, but I also planned for this to be a three-chapter hurt-no-comfort fic and we all know how that turned out.
> 
> Also I asked Fox to use Star Wars curses and he told me to go fuck myself :(

Pride is the best brace there is. Forget bacta tanks and pain killers-- you want to walk tall when facing your superiors? You find some god damn personal pride to prop up your spine, with the seven cracked vertebrae and three ruptured discs. Hold your unit pride tight, letting the name of every fallen _vod_ keep your gut together when the stitches don't quite manage it. A soldier's pride, for fighting and _winning_ at all costs, keeps Fox's steps steady as the world shifts woozily around him.

Geonosis had been everything the Kaminoan cloners had promised them. Metal, flesh, and hellfire. Screams, prayers, and roaring engines. Death. And victory.

Sure, Fox might be struggling to stand in front of Kote, but he was _still standing_.

Kote doesn't look so impressed, though it might just be the fresh scar winding around his eye helping him attain a new level of stoic intimidation. He's a little jealous that Kote gets to wear his battle scars on the outside, but it'd be a sunny day on Kamino before he'd say _that_ out loud.

Kote gives him a single once-over. "Pack your gear, your assignment's come down."

Fox grins sharply. "About damn time! Lokai has been karking insufferable since he snagged the last command slot."

"Lokai's dead."

His focus on pride slips and he has to disguise his stumble as shifting his weight, but he recovers quickly. "Last in, first out, was it? Eager bastard. So I'm taking his place?"

"No. You..."

Fox peers at Kote, confused. His _ori'vod_ was always overly stiff, stuck up, and frankly a bit of a bitch, but Kote has _never_ been hesitant.

Kote closes his eyes briefly before straightening and speaking in a tone so formal Fox immediately stands at attention. "CC-1010, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of your life, the Galactic Republic has endowed special trust in you to take command of the newly established Coruscant Guard. Effective immediately you are responsible for the security, defense, and safe keeping of the Republic's heart."

Fox can only stare.

Kote averts his eyes for the final, damning words. "Congratulations, Commander Fox."

"Congrat--" he sucks in a breath, but the oxygen only feeds the fire. " _Congratulations_? You're… you're sending me to the rear guard?"

"As the first and final defense for the Republic capital," Kote intones, "you are vital to the success of the forward campaign."

"Don't give me that canned speech _shit_ ," Fox hisses, rage starting to prickle behind his eyes. "You're leaving me behind! To-- to what?" His busted knee buckles briefly. He sees Kote's hand twitch toward him, as if wanting to help, and it only makes him angrier. "This isn't what we trained for! This isn't what we were _made_ for!"

"We were made to serve the Republic," Kote says steadily.

"And the _jetiise_!" He grits out. "Will there be a Jedi general assigned to the Coruscant Guard?"

Kote won't meet his fucking eyes. "Coruscant is home to the Jedi Temple and Council. Assigning a general--"

"Would be a waste of resources," Fox finishes for him, bitterness so strong it crawls down his throat and dies in his chest. "Wouldn't it? Because why would you assign a general to the home base when the _real_ fighting is parsecs away?"

"Fox…"

"Don't 'Fox' me!" He's shivering, but it's not because of his anger. Not entirely. Not even primarily. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he continues. "Why me? What did I ever do to you, huh? You don't think I'm competent enough? My company held the line down there! For three hours! Longer than anyone else, we were stacking dead _vod_ waist high as barriers! You think just anyone can do that?"

His good leg finally gives out, no longer able to compensate. He manages to stay upright though, falling to only one knee. Kote's jaw is clenched, but he makes no move to help. Good. He can only take so much disrespect in a day.

"I fought," Fox says, throat tight. "I fought with everything I had. Then I fought some more. Now you're going to take that away from me? Stick me at a desk and fight--" he scrambles, reaching for whatever would fit in his swarming thoughts and laughs a little hysterically when he finds it. "Fight _bureaucracy_?"

"One of us has to do it," Kote says quietly.

"But me? _Me_?"

"Do you have a better candidate in mind?"

Fox glares at Kote, at his placid tone and his blank face and he hates it all. "Bly."

Kote narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Bly?"

"A braindead commander for a braindead--" Fox chokes, the collar of his armor pressing against his trachea as Kote holds him up by his cuirass.

" _Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod_?"

He grapples at Kote's wrist ineffectively, barely managing to get enough air for a reply. "Like this 'promotion' isn't a smack in the face?"

Kote throws him down and Fox curls in on himself, his bones screaming with pain. He focuses so hard on staying conscious that he misses some of what Kote says.

"--do you? Look at yourself. I've seen the medical reports, Fox. This isn't something you can come back from. They shouldn't have even let you leave the bay."

"Medics--" he seals his lips together to keep a groan of agony contained. "Don't know what they're talking about." They didn't 'let' him out of medbay, either.

Suddenly, Kote fills his (narrowing) vision as the other man hovers over him. The anger is gone, he only looks tired now. "Take the job, Fox."

Fox squeezes his eyes shut.

He listens to Kote sigh. “Don't give the long necks the satisfaction of Recycling you." Then, quietly, "Please, Fox'ika.” 

And that's what it came down to, didn't it? He wasn't choosing an assignment. It was much worse than that. He was choosing his death. Get Recycled. Be molecularly disassembled and have his genetic material returned to the pool for future generations of clones. 

Or command the Guard. Banished from the front lines, from the only war worth waging, to never see true combat or camaraderie again. Excommunication.

Death of the body, or death of the soul.

\---

Fox doesn't remember blacking out or being moved. He stares up at the overhead of the medbay blankly.

Fucking Lokai. He always got the better deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ori'vod - big brother  
> Jetiise - Jedi, plural  
> Copaani mirshmure'cye, vod? - "You looking for a slap in the face, brother?"
> 
> I know it's kinda unconventional to pivot the story direction like this, so if you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to voice them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fox is an asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: suicidal ideation

Fox whistles a cheery tune as he walks into the Coruscant Guard’s headquarters. Orik and Kips zero in on him immediately from their respective cubicles-- Orik hunches his shoulders while Kips slowly sinks behind the cubicle partition, as if the thin wall of synthwood could save him.

“Good morning, team,” he greets them neutrally. By which, of course, he means as sinisterly as possible.

“Good morning, sir,” Orik cautiously returns, barely loud enough to be heard over the ringing comm-lines. Fox can’t see his eyes darting around the room because he mandated that everyone on duty remains fully armored-- but he knows. Ohhh, he _knows_. Those precious little twitches give him away.

He stalks towards Orik's desk, eyes fixed on his target. Orik's doing an admirable job pretending to focus on his datapad, but he flinches when Fox leans on the partition. 

“You seem a little edgy, Orik. Everything... okay?” His lieutenant freezes in a preternatural stillness. Under his own bucket, Fox grins.

“Everything is fine, sir," Orik says tightly. "Nothing to report.”

“Really?” He drawls, releasing the desk partition and standing directly behind Orik's chair. That twitch is gonna form into a permanent tic if Orik isn't careful. “Uneventful night shift?”

“Yes, sir,” he replies tightly.

“Hm. Kips?”

“One of the Senators dropped off three bottles of wine and a bowl of some kind of jelly-dessert,” he blurts.

Orik whirls on him. “KIPS! Are you serious?!”

Meanwhile, Fox casually waltzes to the cold storage tank that’s meant for evidence but sees more use as the HQ’s fridge. Sure enough, three bottles of booze and one particularly inviting bowl of blue-and-white dessert are waiting for him.

“Sir, please,” Orik is hovering behind him, carefully out of arms’ reach. “Don’t take all of it, we didn’t even get a bite, we’ve been _shebs_ deep in paperwork and calls--”

“Begging just makes me want to take it from you more,” Fox says disinterestedly.

Orik’s jaw _clicks_ shut.

Fox takes the entire bowl anyway. He’s stuck in the rear and he’ll be _damned_ if he doesn’t take advantage of what he can. Orik will get over it. He’s slated to go back to the front as soon as they fit him for his new prosthetic hand anyway.

He’s halfway to his office, Kips tracking his path with a palpably mournful stare, when Orik gets petty. As usual.

“You sure you don’t want to take the wine, too, _sir_?”

“During work hours? Never. I am a _professional_.” It’s an obvious lie and Orik knows it, not that Fox particularly cares. The reason he’s not interested in the wine is because alcohol interacts _very_ poorly with his painkillers. But that’s none of their business.

“Professional _chakaar_ ,” Orik mutters traitorously.

“Better _chakaar_ than _sheb’urcyin_ ,” he shoots over his shoulder. Kips looks down at that, still oozing sadness. Poor shinies haven’t figured out just how disappointing life is. Good thing he’s around to introduce them to its never-ending sorrows.

He slides into his office, pops open the lid on the bowl and digs a spoon into the dessert. It’s _heavenly_. Light, fluffy, with strong overtones of a sweet yet tangy fruit he no doubt has never heard of. He _almost_ feels bad about depriving those two _di’kute_ of the experience, so he buries the feeling with another bite. He’s almost halfway through the bowl and entirely caught up on correspondence when his comlink lights up with an incoming call. 0945 on the dot. Punctual as always. 

One flipped switch activates all the security and anti-eavesdropping measures in the office. This conversation’s going to need it. “Coruscant Guard Headquarters,” he answers through another spoonful of unnamed dessert. “Commander Fox speaking.”

A long, drawn-out sigh statics through the line. “Fox. This is your personal line.”

He smirks to himself, barely managing to maintain the inanely polite tone as he speaks. “That is correct. May I ask who I’m speaking with?” 

“I’m calling from _my_ personal line." Exasperation morphs to irritation. "I know you can read.”

That's a damning accusation if he's ever heard one. “While that may be true-- and I can neither confirm nor deny that it is-- the number you're calling from is slated for deactivation. Standard procedure for deceased account holders, unfortunately.”

“Stop telling everyone I’m dead.” The caller sounds more tired than annoyed, but that's alright. Fox can fix that.

“It was a shock to us all," he agrees as dramatically as he can while still shoveling mystery dessert in his mouth. "A true pity. Kote always wanted to die in fire and glory, not shadows and shame.”

“I’m not the only _vod_ to change my name--”

“Sometimes I can still hear his voice!" He cuts over him, relishing the moment. "And now we are a force adrift in the galaxy, with no Alor to call our own.”

“For the last time," 'Cody' enunciates through his teeth. "I am not nor have I ever been--!”

“It’s a tragedy on the grandest of scales!" Fox bemoans, mock-fainting in his chair. Stars, he's been around politicians too long. " _Most_ especially because no one has the spine to take up the mantle." Inspired, he switches to a conspiratorial whisper. " _I_ would, except apparently your spine has to be original issue and not augmented with durasteel. Discrimination, I tell you.”

“...I’m hanging up.”

He laughs sharply. “No you’re not.”

The next few seconds are filled with angry beeps and increasingly frustrated curses, all while Fox's shit-eating grin grows steadily wider. Then, silence, equally damning and accusatory. One of his favorite flavors of silence, honestly.

“What did you do?” Cody demands.

Fox twirls his spoon. “Nothing that’s outside of my jurisdiction or authority.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Cody, Cody, Cody. Dear brother of mine, you should know." He narrows his eyes and drops the saccharine facade. "You signed off on it, after all.”

“...Is this about the telecommunications contract?” The sheepish tone really isn't as satisfying as Fox thought it'd be. 

“You assigned the Guard to operate and maintain the _entire GAR’s_ communication infrastructure!" He shouts. "There’s a fucking _switchboard_ in my HQ! A switchboard, Cody!”

He can hear Cody's attempts to disconnect grow more desperate. “You’re the only unit with a consistent base of operations.”

“That’s a strange way of apologizing. Don’t worry, I know it’s new to you, just repeat after me: _I’m_.”

“It still won’t let me hang up.”

“ _Sorry_. ‘I’m Sorry.’ Now you try!”

“How are you doing this?”

Fox tosses the empty bowl of dessert on his desk. The conversation’s putting a sour taste in his mouth anyway. “The system was intentionally designed this way,” he drawls. “We took over from a company that was secretly feeding classified intel to the Seppies, are you _honestly_ surprised I can do shady shit with the network they built?”

“It’s not that you _can_ that surprises me,” Cody grumbles, “just that you figured it out so quickly.”

Sure, it's a compliment, but more importantly, it's an opening. One Cody never would have allowed if Fox hadn't agitated him first and he wastes no time seizing it. “Imagine what that kind of quick, creative thinking can do on the front.”

He practically holds his breath for Cody’s reply but he gets-- nothing. No response at all. Cody isn't saying _anything_. Is he considering it, at least? He has to be considering it. Should Fox wait him out or push the sell? Shit, who's he kidding, he's too desperate to wait.

“Wasn’t Wolffe incapacitated in his last engagement?" He says as casually as he can bear. "I could take over the 104th Battalion.”

“Fox.”

“It wouldn’t even be a permanent assignment," he presses, knowing he shouldn't. "Just until he gets back on his feet.”

“Fox, stop.”

He wants to. Wants nothing more to swallow the words and the shame, escape the call with a scrap of dignity. He can't. “Cody, _ori'vod_ , Alor--"

"I'm not--"

"You’ve got to let me out of here," He closes his eyes tight, as if it can keep him from hearing the pleading in his voice. "I’ve got… I’ve got to get out.” He clenches his teeth because it's already so, _so_ bad, he doesn't need to make this worse. Embarrassing himself is enough, he doesn't need to embarrass Cody, too-- " _Please_."

Air rushes out of him and he presses a fist to his forehead, feeling the heat of humiliation under his skin.

“It’s a command slot, not a prison sentence," Cody says quietly. "The Guard needs you.”

"They don’t need _me_ ," he snaps, bitterness on his tongue. "They just need _a_ commander. Hell, I don't know why we don't just make Captain of the Guard a recovery position. We could cycle commanders out when they need a break, or get injured like Wolffe--”

“No.”

Fox grits his teeth. “Look, just… just one engagement. One last time on the front, Cody, that’s all I need.” It would only take one accident, one push too far for Fox to meet his end. At least that way, on an honest-to-Fett battlefield, he can make sure it’s at least a tactically advantageous death. The way he’s living now-- if you could call it that-- was no life for a soldier. For a _mando’ad_.

But Cody knows what he’s really asking for and he’s all too happy to make Fox suffer. “The answer is no." And it's his command voice, the one Cody uses when he sees what the strategy will cost and deems the loss acceptable. Inevitable. What was one commander’s happiness in the face of the lives of a thousand _vode_? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Fox can only stare at his desk and stubbornly pretend his vision isn’t blurry.

Cody’s not done. "The answer has always been no,” he says. “The answer will always _be_ no. There’s more to fighting a war than being on the front, Fox. You _know_ this. You are every bit as vital to the effort as I am. More vital than line troopers without a doubt and I won’t waste your talents there. I know it’s not what you want, but it’s what the Republic needs.”

“And what about when the Republic doesn’t need us?”

“...What do you mean?” Cody’s wary, he knows how close Fox likes to walk the line of treason. Well. He doesn’t know _exactly_ how close. Not yet.

“In the end, when it’s all over,” he explains.

“When we win?”

He grunts noncommittally. “Or lose. Won’t make much difference to us, will it?”

“Of course it’ll make a difference.” There’s conviction in Cody’s voice born of unshakeable faith in a cause and he _hates_ to hear it. Hates knowing that all his brothers still feel nothing but respect for their buyers. Would they still want to fight if they heard what he does? It’s one thing to know that you’re a product built for war. It’s a whole other beast to sit in on Senate meetings where thousands of rich sentients discuss clones’ genetic optimization, market values, and _shelf life_ as if the subjects of their discussions didn’t protect their worthless asses day in and day out.

But that was a sure way to get Cody to end the conversation, so he sidesteps it. “When it’s all over and the Republic doesn’t need or want us anymore, where will that leave me? Where will that leave all of us who aren’t marching ahead?”

“There’s no shame in surviving, Fox.”

“No point in living past your purpose, either.”

“Our purpose isn’t limited to the war.”

“Isn’t it?”

Cody sighs and Fox knows that he’s hit the limits of Cody’s patience. “Even if it was, we don’t know how long this war is going to last. Setting your eyes to a distant future is only going to drive you crazy. Focus on the close-range targets first. Get through today. Get through tomorrow. We’ll deal with the future when it gets here.”

Good advice for a line-trooper, maybe, when you don’t know whether you’ll make it through the next minute, let alone the next month. Fox doesn’t have that luxury. He _knows_ he’ll make it to the end. That’s the problem.

“The General’s pinging me,” Cody says abruptly. “If I hang up, will it _actually_ end the call this time?”

Fox rubs a hand over his face before disabling the remote access console. “Yeah.”

“Alright. Same time next week?”

“Sure.”

“ _K’oyacyi_ , Fox.”

Fox almost laughs at the earnestness in his voice. “That an order, Alor?”

“You know it is. And stop calling me that.”

“Right away, Alor.”

“You’re lucky the General’s calling me,” Cody says murderously and promptly hangs up before Fox could dig his grave any deeper.

Maybe next time he can lay in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _shebs_ \- ass  
>  _chakaar_ \- corpse robber, thief, petty criminal - general term of abuse  
>  _sheb’urcyin -_ sycophant, lit. ass-kisser  
>  _di’kute_ \- idiots  
>  _vod/vode_ \- sibling/siblings  
>  _ori'vod -_ big sibling  
>  _mando’ad_ \- Mandalorian, lit. child of Mandalore  
>  _k’oyacyi_ \- goodbye, hang in there, lit. stay alive. It’s common to be used as a casual goodbye, but cody is being a little more literal here because he’s a good big brother who constantly worries about fox’ika


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent chapter length whomst?
> 
> content warning: suicidal ideation cause we're still in fox pov

The elevator doors close and Fox sags against the wall, staring sightlessly at the overhead lighting. He doesn’t bother selecting a new level. Where would he even go? The Senate isn't in session so they don't need his protection. HQ is empty and doesn't need his guidance. All his batchmates are offworld and his own troopers go out of their way to avoid him in their downtime. And while justified, that leaves him with… well. It leaves him with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay, only places to avoid.

Places like the mid-levels of Coruscant, where a special unit team is assisting Jedi General Qiunlan Vos run a bust on a Separatist-funded terrorist ring. Without him. _Deliberately_ without him. Vos was all too happy to monopolize his time and skills and contacts to track down the operation, but when the moment of action came they left him behind. No one even called. By the time he figured out where everyone had disappeared to and arrived at the dispatch station out of breath and flushed and betrayed-- they had already gone.

Not wanted. Not needed. Was it always like this? Had he always been the weak link in the chain, one twist away from shattering?

As he shifts slightly against the wall to ease some pressure off the crunching pain in his knees, he wishes he could hate them for it. Wishes his conditioning made him stupid instead of proud so he could act like their prejudices were unjustified, that he still added value to the team, that he was a combat force multiplier and _still capable_. Instead, he grabs a handrail and attempts to ride out another wave of physical agony.

Now, whoever chose that _exact_ moment and his _exact_ elevator out of hundreds? He can _absolutely_ hate them. Fervently. The rage is a comfort. He pulls it close to himself, letting it fill the gaps in his armor and his bones, and he draws himself up into a presentable position as quickly as he can manage before the elevator doors expose him.

“Oh, Commander Fox!”

He stares at the Senator blankly, wondering why the hell she’d bother to remember his name _and_ memorize his armor. Not many people took that kind of effort with clones. Hell, _he_ didn’t with his own Guard. Not much point in it. No one but him is stationed here long when there’s a real fight across the galaxy…

At any rate, he doesn’t recognize the Senator. There’s thousands of them and he doesn’t make it his business to remember _any_ of them unless they cause regular problems. This Pantoran woman isn’t one of them, so while he vaguely her face, he can’t at all remember her name. Her passive, weak body language is pissing him off, though, so he renders a silent indoor salute as protocol requires and offers nothing more.

“Is… is it alright if I join you?” She asks timidly, folding her hands tightly in front of her chest. “I can wait for another elevator if you’re on official business.”

It’s a question complex enough that manners would necessitate a verbal answer, but _fuck_ manners and _fuck_ Senators. He shrugs-- a response prohibited in Republic Regulation 941-34, chapter 3, paragraph 92(e)-- and takes a step to the side. Either the senator will inflict her company on him and give him a convenient reason to be angry or she’ll abandon him to self-loathing, so it’s a win-win either way.

Unfortunately for her, she joins him and Fox gleefully takes the opportunity to catalogue everything he can possibly dislike about her. She’s small, both in height and mass, so she’d be completely ineffective in any kind of physical altercation. A mild breeze could knock her over and a moderately determined gdan could eat her alive. Two gdan, tops.

She turns to him, the ornate metal headdress woven into her hair _clinking_ delicately. He _hates_ useless ornamentation. “You must have a very difficult job.”

Another shrug. What can he say? Casual reg-breaking is both a habit and a hobby. Ah, and another thing-- her clothes. Not only is her gown made of fabric heavy enough to impede movement and act as an easy handhold for enemies, it commits the _far_ more heinous crime of being irredeemably tacky. You’d think with all the money they’re not paying their army, Senators could at least afford some decent-looking clothes.

She attempts more conversation and Fox passionately hopes a gdan _does_ find its way onto Coruscant and gnaws right through her faux-leather boots. “Is it very hard to protect Senators?”

He shakes his head. Not nearly as hard as it is to resist the urge to kill them, anyway.

“Oh…” She fidgets with the hem of her sleeves and _honestly_ what is it with civilians’ complete inability to conserve movement? “Um, is your vocoder not working? I only ask because…”

He looks at her, turning his whole head so that she _knows_ he’s looking at her.

“Because isn’t it against your regulations to give non-verbal answers?”

Theoretically, this is his cue to pull his shit together and give a regulation-approved response. It wouldn’t be too hard to scrape together a half-assed apology that would mollify any egotistical Senator, but tonight he’s had the first real taste of the rest of his life and he’s going to exploit this opportunity for all he’s worth. Well... that’s not much. For all _she’s_ worth, then.

So he leans towards her and whispers, “Gonna turn me in, Senator?”

She _eeps_. _Eeps_! Like a thrice-damned womp rat. “N-no! Of course not! I just-- I, um.” She’s blushing, her face going from a light blue to a deep violet. Might’ve been pretty if he didn’t despise anyone who can’t hold a Sabaac face.

He glances at the panel and sees they’re not even halfway to her floor. Plenty of time to hang a rope. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I’m past my expiration date anyway. You’d be doing the Republic a favor.”

“Don’t-- you can’t say that!” She nearly shouts. It’s the most spine she’s shown in their entire conversation and she blinks like she’s surprised she had it in her. Makes two of them. “Sorry, that was-- wait, _no_ , I won’t apologize! That’s a terrible way to talk about yourself!”

“Just repeating official policy, ma’am,” he says dryly.

“That’s not--” she puffs up her cheeks, looking frustrated. “I mean, it is, but-- it doesn’t make it okay! Or-- or right!”

He sneers internally. Please, tell him _more_ about how it’s wrong that he’s aware of the shitty situation the Senate’s put him in. “Oh, but our grand and glorious Republic _can’t_ be wrong, ma’am,” he takes a step towards her and she shrinks away, almost backing into the wall. “If they don’t have this right, why, that could mean they’re wrong about _other things_ , maybe even--” he gasps melodramatically, “the _war_.”

The Senator flinches, her shocked amber eyes nearly the size of his fists. This is probably the most she’s ever heard a clone speak and it’s almost definitely the first time she’s heard one express something approximating an opinion-- let alone one as treasonous as his. Heh. Death by petite politician. Cody’s going to have an aneurysm when he finds out what got him executed. It’s so ridiculous he starts laughing-- and he doesn’t bother switching off his vocoder. Maybe it’ll make her think he’s lost his mind.

Maybe he has.

“You… you’re right.”

He stops laughing.

“The Republic isn’t perfect.” Her back is straight, resolute, but her headdress’ dangling gems betray her trembling. Her voice drops to an agonized whisper. “These days, I suspect we’re doing more wrong than right.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He steps back out of her space, angry and annoyed. How’s he managed to find the _one_ fucking Senator on the planet who isn’t itching to pull the plug on a clone? This is irony on a galactic level. What did he do to deserve this? Did he personally piss in the Force’s wellspring or something?

Her eyes flick around the elevator, in the painfully casual way of people with zero training in subterfuge. “Did you hear about the investigation on Orto Plutonia? It wasn’t too long ago.” She hesitates and glances quickly at him. “The 501st was there. Do you know Captain Rex?”

If she’s about to start waxing poetic about that blonde defect he’s going to puke. He gets enough of that shit from Cody.

It takes her nearly a full minute to realize that he isn’t going to encourage her. 

“Well. Orto Plutonia was considered Pantoran territory, but during our investigation for the Republic outpost, we discovered a native, sentient species. The Talz are quite incredible, even if their aroma is… distinctive.” She laughs weakly. ‘Weak’ seems to be a recurring theme for her. “Chairman Cho didn’t… he didn’t appreciate them. He instigated a war when peace was a clear and tangible option. Two squads died protecting him and in the end, he died, too. And for what?” She asks, aggrieved. “Plutonia holds no tactical or strategic advantage, it has no resources. We didn’t stand anything to gain from fighting. And sometimes… sometimes I wonder if _this_ war is any different!”

Ohhhhhh no. Fuck no. He did _not_ sign up for this shit. He has no interest in fanning the flames for a young revolutionary. “This is above my paygrade, Senator.”

“You _aren’t_ paid!” She shouts indignantly.

He stares at her in askance. “...Gee, thanks, ma’am.”

She flushes again and looks at the floor. “Um. Sorry. That was... rude.”

Fox desperately eyes the panel. They’re almost at her floor. Another minute and he’ll be free of her. A minute’s not long, right? She could endure silence for sixty seconds, right?

Nope. 

“What do you, um, do for food? If you aren’t paid?”

The sudden change in topic throws him, enough that he answers before he can think better of it. “We eat what we’re issued,” he says warily.

“Which is…?”

He sighs, hating himself for breaking his silence, and pops out a c-rat from his belt. “Ration cubes.” He adopts the tone he hears on holo-ads: “Nutritionally optimized, no odor, no texture, no taste-- a lifetime’s supply all for the low, low price of eternal servitude!”

She leans forward, curious, and, feeling much more sadistic than generous, he pinches off a corner and gives it to her. Cautiously, she eats it. “Oh. This is...”

“Thrilling, isn’t it?”

She wrinkles her nose and puckers her lips. “This is unacceptable. There’s no flavor! There’s no... anything!” She turns beseeching eyes on him. “You must eat more than _this_.”

“Sometimes I go digging in Senator’s trash cans for scraps.”

She stares, horrified.

“For legal purposes, that was a joke.”

But she doesn’t seem at all reassured. Kind of weird that he can break a hundred regs in front of her, but _food_ is what gets her upset. No one takes treason seriously around here. “I won’t stand for this,” she mutters to herself. “I’ll- I’ll propose a bill!”

He snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Her face falls. “It _would_ take a long time, and the effort would be better spent on a bill for pay...” Then, the return of resolution. “I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

Fox side-eyes her, extremely suspicious. Nothing is more dangerous than a well-meaning civilian.

“Until I can get a bill passed,” she declares, “I’ll bring the Guard the best food I can procure!”

“I don’t think we can afford a life-long chef.” Nor could he deal with the constant headache of organizing VIP visits. It’s never enough for Senators to do good things, they must be _seen_ doing good things.

“Life-long!” She exclaims, aghast. “Do you really have so little-- oh!” She blinks rapidly when the elevator _dings_ and finally, finally opens to her floor.

He breathes a small sigh of relief and a-little-less-gently-than-appropriate shoves her out the elevator. “It’s been a wonderful chat, Senator, lovely to meet you, have a good evening!”

She turns slowly, bewildered. “Commander Fox, wait--”

He jabs the Door Close button rapidly. “Sorry, ma’am, doors closing!

“No, I wasn’t--”

The door closes before she can stop it, tripping over her own dress. Good riddance. He’ll definitely have to make a note to avoid her as intently as her fellow politicians avoid accountability. Maybe he’ll assign Horn as her guard, since the traitor absconded with Vos as team lead. Whatever. It’ll all blow over soon enough. Senatorial good-will is notoriously short-lived.

\---

Except, apparently, for Pantoran Senators.

Riyo Chuchi-- he looked up her name in the database-- is strangely earnest about the whole arrangement. He won’t call it a partnership because he’d sooner die than be anything more than cooly professional with a fucking _Senator_ , but even if it was a partnership it’d be weird. She visits the HQ on an almost weekly basis. His team adores her to a level _beyond_ appropriate-- they practically simper every time she walks through the door. It’s so bad that they’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the unique metal _tinkling_ her various headdresses make. That sounds like an exaggeration, doesn't it? Good for laughs, makes the telling a little more interesting, right? But it's not an exaggeration. It’s so much worse than that. It’s _truth_. Fox fucking _tested_ it. It was downright creepy to play a recording on the speaker and watch his entire shop turn their heads to the doorway, already anticipating desserts.

Oh, did he mention that? The Senator brings desserts to HQ. Constantly. Consistently. They’re _homemade_. Who does that?? Who makes delicious, probably expensive food and gives it to _clones_? She might as well toss it down a garbage chute because the finely crafted culinary delights she delivers are absolutely _wasted_ on them. Not that it stops him from hoarding treats in his office, obviously. He’s self-loathing, not self-denying. 

Anyway, he has a strong suspicion that _Chuchi_ made the blue-and-white jelly dessert all those months ago. He doesn’t know for sure-- she hasn’t made that exact dessert and he can’t ask Kips or Orik if she was the Senator they mentioned because they’re both _long_ gone-- but he’s tasted that same sweet-and-tangy fruit in a couple of her confections. It’s almost enough for him to hate her a little less.

Almost.

Until she pulls shit like this.

“What did you say?” he demands sharply.

She pauses, halfway out the door of his office, a baked tart freshly delivered to his desk, and she turns around with wide eyes. “That’s how you say it, right? _K’oyacyi_?”

“Who taught you that?” He’s going to _murder_ whichever love-blind shiny had disconnected their brain from their mouth. Chuchi could feed them cakes made of gold every day and she still wouldn’t have the right to speak their language! She was a _Senator_.

“Um, Noon did. He said it means goodbye.” She furrows her brows. “Is that… Is that wrong?”

It takes him a moment to summon an image of Sergeant Noon in his mind, but he manages it. He’s had to memorize _all_ of his troopers, no matter how short their stay, because damned _Chuchi_ apparently has eidetic memory and never forgets who is who. At times like this, he wonders if it’s a deliberate attempt to undermine him. After all, what politician wouldn’t want to have their own personal clone army in their back pocket?

“It wasn’t Noon’s place to teach you,” he says icily.

He expects indignance, irritation, or feigned confusion. And he _does_ get confusion, but it’s brief, rapidly shifting to mortification instead. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry,” Chuchi tugs at her ear, a painfully obvious tell for when she’s distressed. “It’s, it’s a cultural thing, isn’t it? Or, or personal? I-- I should’ve asked if it was okay to say it, I’m sorry!”

He holds up a hand and she stops abruptly, her face deepening to a shade of violet that contrasts starkly with her elegantly decorative yellow face paint. “You _earn_ the right to speak mando’a. Knowing the language isn’t enough, you’ve got to fight for it.”

“Fight for it?”

He nods. It’s not… technically true. It’s not like he’s the final authority for any language, let alone one he rarely speaks himself. Anyone could learn mando’a and it’s the official language for an entire system, but if they want to speak it to _him_ , to his _vode_ , as if they shared any kind of commonality beyond the superficial, then... yeah. Fett made them fight for the right to speak. Most of his _vode_ are still fighting for that right. It’s not for a Senator to take.

“I… see.” Chuchi’s gaze goes distant.

Fox turns away. The conversation’s over, as far as he’s concerned. He can’t technically dismiss people of higher rank, but if he doesn’t acknowledge her she’ll get the hint. He’s got to respond to correspondence from the front anyway.

“How… who do I fight for it?”

He looks up from his datapad, wondering not for the first time if he had an undiagnosed brain injury from Geonosis. “What?”

She brushes down the front of her tunic-style dress primly, as if it could distract him from her shaking hands. “You said I have to fight to earn it. Who do I fight?”

“ _Can_ you fight?” He hadn’t seen any record of self-defense training or martial service in Chuchi’s record, but sometimes politicians redact that info in the name of security. 

“Of course.”

Riiiiiight. He moves out from behind his desk to loom over her threateningly. Chuchi leans back, but she doesn’t move. She only stares into his visor, unblinking. He lets a whole minute pass, and while a bead of sweat crawls down her neck, she doesn’t break. That leaves one test left.

He shoves her.

She hits the floor with a squeak and he bites back a sigh. Yup. One gdan.

“You can’t fight.” And, honestly, he really shouldn’t be this disappointed. What is life but a series of broken promises, anyway?

“I _can_!” She protests, scrambling to her feet and frantically trying to set her headdress right. “I’m not trained, but I _am_ physically capable of fighting!” 

“You’re physically capable of getting your ass kicked.” He walks back to his desk, but he’s got a new shadow, apparently.

“If you’re such an expert,” she says from his elbow, “ _you_ teach me.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder, ignores the brief flash of hope in her eyes, and puts her at an arms-length. “No.”

“Then I’ll get one of the Guard to teach me.” She’s still trying to get her headdress to sit properly.

“They have duties.”

“Don’t those duties include physical conditioning? I’ll just join in. They won’t even notice I’m there!” 

The inevitable happens and her fiddling causes the headdress to fall from her hands and clatter across his desk, knocking over a stack of flimsi and datapads. They all clatter to the floor and he hears at least one _crunch_. Fox puts his hands on his hips and looks at her pointedly. She’s frozen, hands still at her hair, clutching the purple locks. Remember back when he thought shinies were the worst part about his job? Good times.

“You’re a Senator,” he enunciates slowly. “We _always_ know when you’re there.”

“But I won’t be in the way!”

‘In the way’? She would _be_ the way if she dug any deeper into the Guard. Stars, he can only imagine how bad his crew would get if she started actually working out with them on a daily basis. He’s pretty sure Clayton is one lingering glance away from proposing and Tenny’s tried to adopt her twice already. Yeah, that’s a catastrophe waiting to happen.

She snatches her headdress from his desk. “I’ll go ask them right now,” she says, walking away from him. “You can’t order them not to train and you can’t order _me_ not to show up!”

Of course she manages to have a backbone and an ounce of political acumen _only_ when it makes his life difficult.

“Stop.”

She complies so suddenly that the rest of her updo falls apart, and she has to brush hair from her face to see him properly. He’s going to regret this so much...

“I’ll give you one chance,” he says. “Twice a week, one hour a night. I’ll train you. We leave rank at the door. You complain, I drop you. You waste my time, I drop you. You _quit_ , and you never get another chance. Understand?”

She lifts her chin with a look so victoriously defiant that he wants to throttle her right then and there. “I’ll see you Taungsday evening.” Chin still in the air, she pivots on her foot and marches out of his office with a bounce in her step.

She's _jare’la._ If the training doesn’t kill her, he will.

\---

Chuchi stares when he steps on the training mats and he wavers mid-stride, not sure what’s snagged her attention and feeling distinctly exposed without his armor. 

“I thought you were all supposed to look the same,” she says.

He eyes her warily. “We do.”

She shakes her head slowly. “You don’t.”

Uh-huh. He doesn’t know what she’s angling towards and he doesn’t care. They’re on a schedule. They’re not wasting time on small talk, so he tosses a jump-rope at her face. She fumbles the catch, but manages to keep it from smacking her forehead.

“Warm-ups. Go.”

\---

It’s pathetic. She’s weak, uncoordinated, and unconfident. They barely make it halfway into the training session before she collapses on the mats, gasping for air and clutching her stomach. 

“Get up.”

“I can’t,” she chokes, sweat and snot and tears smeared on her face.

“Do you quit?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, but doesn’t respond.

“Do you quit, Senator?”

She turns her face into the mat and draws her knees up underneath her. Still no response.

Fox leaves his post on the sidelines and kneels down beside her, leaning to speak in her ear. “Do. You. _Quit_?”

There’s a muffled vibration, but it’s unintelligible.

“Speak up.”

“...no.” 

It’s faint, but unmistakable. Slowly, she begins to rise. He leans back on his haunches and watches dispassionately as she props herself up on her hands, one arm at a time. She makes it to a sitting position before stopping.

“All the way up.”

The look she shoots him is full of pain and bewilderment instead of the venom he expects and he reminds himself once again that this is a civilian, not a soldier. Not a _vod_. Not worth his time.

“All the way up or we’re done.”

It’s borderline repugnant, watching her struggle to stand. She grunts and groans and breaks into heaving sobs when she tries to fight past the muscle failure in her legs. Her hair has completely escaped from its binds and is plastered to her skin, saturated by the various fluids running down her face. Several times, she looks to him with red-rimmed eyes, as if she’s expecting help or comfort. He gives her none. She’ll do this on her own or not at all. 

The Kaminoans would’ve terminated her ten minutes ago.

In the end, she does stand. Her sobs turn into racking gasps and it takes him a moment to verify that it’s an expression of joy rather than a hyperventilation episode. It’s the face-splitting grin that gives it away.

“Shuttle sprints. Go.”

The grin evaporates in an instant. You would’ve thought he’d blown up her entire planet instead of telling her to move from point Aurek to point Besh.

“I--” her voice is hoarse and fails on the first syllable. She swallows and tries again. “I don’t think I can run.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care.”

She faces the far wall again, trepidation and fear clear on her face.

“You’re going for distance,” he says. “Not time.” It’s not encouragement. Just a reminder of the rules.

On the first step she cries out, then gasps raggedly as she attempts to manage the pain. It’s disappointing, but at least the tears are silent this time. Then she screws up her face and takes another step. And another. She keeps at it, dragging one foot in front of the other at a glacial but consistent pace. It’s an entire three laps before her body finally-- and truly-- gives up on her. But this time, she doesn’t curl into a ball of self-pity. No. This time, she looks up from her prone position, fixes her gaze on the finish line, and begins to crawl.

She’s dragging herself by her arms alone, inch by inch, when he finally calls it.

“Stop.”

She ignores him.

“You’re done. Stop.”

“I’m not--” a shuddering breath in-- “I’m not quitting.”

“I know. You’re not. But you _are_ done.”

She pauses and turns her head to look up into his eyes, as if she doesn’t quite trust him. About time she caught on to that.

“Can you make it back to your apartments on your own?”

Chuchi doesn’t even finish nodding before her head drops limply to the mat. Well. Answers that question.

It takes a few comm calls, but he eventually gets hold of the Pantoran delegation and acquires the number for her personal assistant. The older woman is _not_ pleased at the state she finds her Senator in, but it isn’t Fox’s problem anymore. Chuchi asked for training, she got training. Isn’t his fault that civilians can’t cut it.

It _is_ almost a shame that she wouldn’t be coming back for more. He doesn’t blame her, not even his _vode_ would subject themselves to him willingly, but she did well. 

For a Senator.

\---

“It doesn’t quite mean goodbye,” Fox says at the end of their sixth session.

Chuchi looks up at him from where she’s leaned over, hands on her knees. She’s winded, but nowhere near collapsing. “What?”

“ _K’oyacyi_.” He’s not looking at her, focusing every ounce of his attention on removing the wraps from his hands. “It’s what we say to each other when we part, but goodbye isn’t an equivalent translation. It means ‘stay alive’.”

She wipes some sweat off her face with the back of her hand, carefully avoiding her black eye. “You tell each other to stay alive instead of goodbye?”

“Never know what’s around the corner. Especially on the front lines. Here,” he hands her a bacta patch. While common for clones training in combatives, black eyes would only raise unwelcome questions for a Senator.

She accepts it, slapping it on her face immediately. “So it shows care for someone’s well being? It’s a hope you’ll come back?”

“It can be a hope. It can be an order, too,” he says, relieved that he kept the bitterness out. “To me, it’s just an acknowledgement of reality.”

Chuchi nods thoughtfully, the pensive effect somewhat dampened by the eyepatch. “ _K’oyacyi_.”

\---

Fine. Three gdan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gdan - small, lizard-like creature that hunts merlie calves (space cow equivalent) in large packs  
>  _jare’la_ \- stupidly oblivious of danger, asking for it  
>  _vod/vode_ \- sibling/siblings  
>  _k’oyacyi -_ why are you looking for a definition it was the entire point of the chapter


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, *please* take the content warnings seriously. There is no comfort at the end of this chapter and I know better than to promise a follow-up in any kind of timely manner.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: suicidal ideation, combat scenes, extreme injury, grief

It's one of those days. The sun shines on Coruscant in its best approximation of a beautiful morning, the eternal twilight of smog somewhat dampening the effect. Sort of. To be honest, it's a bit nostalgic for Fox. If his eyes are only half-lidded, or squinted as they are now as he waits for the pain meds to kick in, the smog seems a bit denser, a bit grittier. Like sand instead of smoke, canyons instead of skyscrapers. LAAT/Is instead of speeders.

For a moment, he can let himself pretend. Imagine that all his months after Geonosis were little more than a fever dream, a liminal nightmare on the edge of the end. Fantasize that life gave him exactly what he wanted and didn't overstay its welcome by a single second. 

It's nice to daydream.

The central comm console _pings_ and he lolls his head to better see it, not quite motivated to physically lift his aching head from the edge of his chair. The clone command chat has new messages.

REX: Okay, who's on 000? Got the next cycle off.  
BLY: not me  
WOLFFE: no  
GREE: I am currently unavailable.  
COLT: *I'm* on overtime since you dropped those two for ARC training.  
REX: No take backs.

The group chat stalls and Fox's eyes wander aimlessly across the screen. There's roughly a dozen different chat boxes open that he passively monitors throughout the day, but none of the activity is particularly interesting. Most haven't been active overnight anyway. He stalls on one whose most recent message was three days ago, the unfamiliar sensation of a smile crawling on his face like some kind of bug with too many legs.

REX: No one?  
BACARA: not interested.  
NEYO: same  
REX: Aw...

Yeah, smiling he can do without. Consciously drops the expression. He likes the feeling behind it, though. It's warm. And… round? Full? Easy. In a way like nothing has been since the medics peeled him off the ground almost a year ago. He blinks slowly and watches the smog swirl beyond his window. Then he allows his eyes to close completely. 

The pain he remembers, of course, it echoes in his body even today. But the true agony of the past had never been physical. Even in the moment, busted and broken against a berm of corpses, the pain had been secondary to the existential _peace_. Purpose had vanished with the final wave of Geonosian soldiers, but it hadn't left him empty. Even with his armor and body in pieces, he'd never felt more whole than those fleeting moments he believed his purpose _fulfilled_. Having that ripped from him left ragged edges that shrapnel could only aspire to.

Strange that he's been feeling it again, that sense of fulfillment. The context is stranger. Teaching combatives was never his calling before, there's no reason for it to be so rewarding now. The console _ping_ s and he reluctantly opens his eyes.

REX: Fine, drinks on me.  
NEYO: Oh hey, my schedule just cleared up. I'll bring Grey.  
REX: Nice!

Fox snorts lightly. It doesn't set off a pain response so he wills himself to properly sit up, but ignores the open chat boxes. He doesn't drink in general and even if he did, it sure as hell wouldn't be with blondie. He opens his correspondence instead and begins sorting through all the trash that ended up in his inbox during the nine hours he wasn't in his office.

\----

By lunchtime, his morning fugue had long worn off, thanks in large part to the three stooges flooding the command chat with an inane running commentary of their day. He grumpily digs out a food container from its hiding place under his desk. He’s made this fudge last the whole week, mostly because Chuchi made enough for a small army. Or for an entire Guard headquarters. Look, if she wanted him to share, then she shouldn’t have left the _whole box_ on his desk. He’s not even a good person, let alone the saint he’d need to be to surrender chocolate to a bunch of ingrates. It’s damn impossible to maintain a sense of peace when those _di’kute_ are so irritat-- _PING_.

GREY: Hey @ _vode_ guess what level we’re on 

Case in _fucking_ point.

BACARA: No one fucking cares, stop pinging me  
NEYO: Sixty-Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!!  
WOLFFE: nice  
COLT: Nice!  
BLY: _nice_

Fox laughs, then freezes. Did he seriously just laugh at a 69 joke? Is he high? He squints at the fudge. They _are_ suspiciously good. Maybe that’s the secret ingredient for Chuchi’s desserts. Should he run a tox report on it? He takes a contemplative bite of fudge and nearly groans out loud. Fuck that, he’s not giving up a single damn crumb. 

GREE: This is an inappropriate use of an official communications channel.  
WOLFFE: fuck off you piece of shit  
GREY: woah, take it easy _vod_  
GREE: That is also inappropriate, CC-3636.  
BACARA: wtf  
COLT: Using designations? Seriously?  
BLY: oof  
GREY: i was trying to help you gree, why do you do this to yourself  
GREE: Why is it offensive to adhere to standards?  
_Several people are typing…_

You know what? This fudge is too nice to have it spoiled by Gree’s anal retentiveness.

_FOX has muted GREE_  
BACARA: THANK you  
NEYO: This is why Fox’s my favorite  
REX: Suck up  
FOX: What’s that, Rex? You wish for me to release incriminating photos to the chat?  
REX: What photos? I don’t do anything incriminating.  
REX: Fox?  
REX: What photos?  
GREY: i wouldn’t call his bluff, vod  
BLY: Why are you two texting instead of talking? You _just_ sent a group photo of yourselves at the bar  
GREY: fresher break  
NEYO: stop texting in the fresher you disgusting _shabla_ slob  
_GREY is typing…_

A new window pops up before Fox sees the response. _REX has requested to open a DM. Accept?_ He hits _Yes_ and settles in for entertainment.

REX: So uh  
REX: What pics?  
FOX: You know if I tell you, I’ll have to get new, worse material.  
REX: Yeah but you’ve never blackmailed *me* before! I don’t even know what I could’ve done, I’m a good soldier.  
FOX: And a great lookout.  
REX: Sure? Sentry duty is part of being a soldier.  
FOX: Your General and his Senator would agree.  
REX: Oh no  
REX: Look  
REX: It’s not like that between them  
FOX _uploaded an image,_ MARRIAGE_CERT_SKYWALKER.png

‘ _REX is typing’_ appears and disappears several times. Fox contentedly chews another square of fudge, perfectly happy to imagine Rex’s futile attempts to come up with an intelligent defense, something he’d struggle with perfectly sober, after a whole morning of bar crawling. An entire minute crawls by as he waits, but the next alert isn’t from Rex.

 _CODY has requested to open a DM. Accept?_ Fox raises his brow at this, but allows it.

CODY: Please stop muting Gree. He sends up a formal report every time you do and I’m running out of ways to ‘lose’ it.  
FOX: I can set up a prop inbox to automatically forward his reports to. You’ll never even have to see the complaints  
CODY: That’s not the point.  
FOX: But it *is* the solution.  
CODY: Fox.  
FOX: Alor.  
_CODY has exited the DM._

Coward.

There’s several _pings_ in a row and he has to cycle through several windows to find where they all came from. Rex is blubbering about not wanting to lose his general, as if Fox would really report the illegal marriage and risk getting Skywalker replaced with a _jetii_ who isn’t an easily exploitable dumbass. He briefly unmutes Gree in the command chat until he immediately begins copy-pasting paragraphs of regulations prohibiting their “abuse of telecommunications resources”, which he responds to by kicking Gree from the chat entirely. Cody can fucking deal with the reports.

He’s surprised to find a message alert from Chuchi, though. Usually, they only chat to deconflict schedules and to coordinate the next combatives training session, but he can’t imagine why she’d send an image to do that. He opens UNTITLED.jpg and frowns at the blurry, poorly lit photo. Did she send this on accident? He narrows his eyes, but all he can definitively make out is fabric in the foreground, as if she had taken this photo from her pocket. Yeah, looks like she probably hit the camera shutter on accident. He replies with a single question mark and resolves to tease her about it at their next session before returning to the command chat.

BLY: but really, what’s your problem with gree?  
WOLFFE: told you before  
BLY: you have literally never told me. you always dodge the question.  
GREY: dunno why you think asking him in a public chat will make him more likely to answer  
BLY: i was hoping SOMEONE would tell me. gree’s a little… socially challenged, but so is wolffe  
WOLFFE: >:(  
BLY: see?  
GREY: aw, you made him sad  
NEYO: lol  
REX: I don’t know. Gree’s just a little more stuck up.  
BLY: i know *you* don’t know, he’s hated gree since before he even knew you existed

He uses the pause in conversation to check if Chuchi has sent anything more, but his message hasn’t even been marked as seen yet. Eh, she’s probably doing a working lunch. Senators tend to have those.

BLY: oh come one, no one?  
BLY: colt? bacara?  
COLT: I choose life, thanks  
WOLFFE: good choice  
BLY: fox, you know don’t you? and you’re not scared of wolffe  
FOX: Of course I know, but I have a personal policy of not interfering with marital relationships.  
REX: Oh, DO YOU?  
NEYO: ...do I wanna ask?  
FOX: Yes, *do* you want them to ask, vod’ika?  
BLY: wolffe’s not even married

He chooses a smaller piece of fudge to munch on, grudgingly resigning himself to the idea that it’ll be his last piece for the day. He’s carefully savoring it when Chuchi finally responds.

CHUCHI: hlp

He furrows his brow. That’s out of character. So was the accidental photo, but two mis-sends in a row? That’s one short of a pattern and Chuchi is meticulous about her messages. Habits of a Senator, he supposes. Always one typo away from an international incident. So even if he excuses the photo as a miracle mistake, he can’t come up with a plausible situation where she’d do it twice.

FOX: Everything okay?

He hovers over the send button when another image comes through the channel. UNTITLED2.jpg. He opens it without sending his message and leans close to his screen, eyes straining to resolve another blurry photo. It’s difficult, because the only light source is a dull red from the ground, assuming the photo is oriented correctly. The idea scratches at an impression he can’t quite place. An association with flying, for some reason? Runway approach lights? You know what, screw this. He lightens the image a few times with filters. It doesn’t do anything for the resolution, but it’s easier to make out the central subject of the photo. It’s humanoid shape, though the clothing (and hat?) makes the species impossible to recognize. But there’s one thing he’s been trained to identify on sight since decanting and his blood runs cold when he spots it: a blaster.

The command chat is still sending messages, the staccato alerts punctuating his mounting horror. _Shit._ Emergency lights! Not runway lights, _emergency_ lights in the cabin, that’s what they remind him of-- what they _are_. Is she on a transport? In a building without power? Fuck, not ‘hlp’, ‘ _help’_. How the hell did she get herself kidnapped?! She was supposed to be at the Senate, they have their own security--

Fox looks up sharply at the lights flickering in his office and is out of his chair before he even registers his intent, all but sprinting to the sentry desk. The last time this sector of Coruscant had electrical issues, a zillo beast wreaked havoc, caused trillions of credits’ worth of damage, killed half a platoon of his troopers, and _Chuchi’s in danger_.

“Status, now!” He barks.

Jewel jerks in shock, spilling caf down the front of his armor. Fox’s lips pull back in a snarl and he swarms over to the shiny, ready to rip throats out with nothing but his teeth when Loca shouts across the room. “Sir! The Senate building’s on lockdown!”

He whirls, ears ringing, worst fears confirmed. “The _Senate_? Who authorized that?”

Loca shakes his head. “I don’t know, sir. Manually engaged from the East Wing security room.”

“Get the Senate Commandos on the line, I’ll have their _heads_ if this is an uncoordinated functions check.” He knows damn well that isn't the case. “Jung! Scramble the QRF.”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant runs out the back, towards the barracks.

He zeroes on Loca again. “What’s scheduled for the East Wing today?” Chuchi’s office is in the East Wing. It can’t be coincidence that the Senate’s on lockdown and she’s sending images of armed intruders.

“Let me pull up the agenda, sir," Loca says smoothly, rapidly cycling through screens. 

Fox leans forward on the desk and forcefully centers himself on breathing while he waits. All the way in, the old cracks in his ribs twanging at the effort, all the way out.

"...Nothing," Loca finally concludes. "There’s no Senate session planned."

 _Shit_. “That means all Senators should be locked in their offices. I believe this is a targeted effort against a single Senator--”

“Uh-oh...”

“ _What_.” He bites out, teeth gritted so hard it’s giving him a stress headache.

Loca side-eyes him nervously. “A, er, subcommittee called an impromptu meeting in the East Wing’s foyer.”

“Of course they did,” he breathes, reassessing the entire situation. He can’t quite decide if this is good or bad news for Chuchi, the blurred image of a blaster flashing in his mind. “Draw up a list of who was requested and try getting in direct contact with the Senators. There should be two patrols in the area, direct them to the East Wing to probe the building, find out what the fuck is going on. Be cautious,” Fox orders as he walks backwards to his office. “I suspect this is a hostage situation. Have a status ready in five.” Without pausing to hear or acknowledge the confirmation, he turns and runs the rest of the way. The door barely slides completely shut before he snatches his bucket off his desk and shoves it on his head.

The HUD flickers to life and he quickly absorbs the updates. All Senatorial Guards on high alert, QRF on the flightline, pilots spinning up the LAAT/Is for takeoff, 147 new messages in the command chat. He leaves his office, grabbing his DC-15 off the wall as he goes, and dials the Chancellor. Full mobilization of the Guard requires notification at a minimum, although approval is typically ideal. To his infinite irritation, the Chancellor doesn’t answer, so he uses the red line, the one that automatically patches him through to his emergency communicator. It rings. And it rings. And rings. And no one answers.

Damn _fucking_ shit. There’s only one reason the Supreme Chancellor wouldn’t pick up an emergency call. He’s rushing back to the sentry desk, only to painfully collide with Loca. “Sir! Apologies--”

“Put _all_ of the Guard on alert,” Fox wheezes, unsuccessfully massaging his ribs through his armor. “Including security and incarceration. We've been breached.”

“Sir, that’s what I came to tell you-- The Chancellor’s authorized a release.”

“Whose? How? His line’s dead.”

“Not sure, sir, but Ziro the Hutt.”

“ _Ziro?!_ ” He snarls. They’re releasing that fucking _slug_? HE’S the one who brought the _chakaar_ into custody! It was one of the last sting operations he was able to participate in directly. They hadn’t suffered any casualties, but it was _clone_ sweat and blood that removed a Hutt Clan Master from power. The Chancellor was no better than any other Senator-- no actually, he was _worse_ , just as slimy as the Hutt he’s approved for release. Is that all it fucking took to get freedom? One _measly_ hostage crisis and Senators fall over themselves to appease their captors. Maybe Fox should just take them hostage _himself--_

“Coruscant Guard Captain! Captain, are you there?!” It’s not the Chancellor’s emergency line, but _is_ his authorization code on his HUD. 

“ _Commander_ Fox speaking.”

“Oh, captain--” Fox bares his teeth beneath his bucket. “The most terrible thing has happened!”

“Who is this?” He demands. “You’re not the Chancellor.”

“Oh, the Chancellor gave me his communicator because there were no signals in his office--”

“ _Who are you_.”

“Senator Orn Free Taa!” He squeaks. “The Chancellor’s in danger!”

Of course he fucking is. He sends a quick message to the QRF to split into two strike teams and begins his sprint to the flight line. “What’s the threat?”

“Bounty hunters!”

“How many? What do they want?” Ziro, obviously, but is that _all_ they requested?

“Well I’m sure _I_ don’t know--” There’s a scuffle on the other end of the line before a new voice speaks.

“Sir, this is Dragosta.”

Relief floods him at finally speaking to a competent being. Warden Dragosta knows his shit. “Status.”

“We released Ziro to a single bounty hunter,” Dragosta says, Senator Taa’s general indignation audible in the background. “Spiked their comms, they’re heading to the Senate Building for pickup. I’d guess less than ten by the size of their airspeeder.” Dragosta sighs in irritation. “Senator Taa insists the Chancellor is in danger.”

Of course he does. Clearly, Dragosta doesn’t think much about the Senator’s assessment and Fox isn’t particularly inclined to think much about Senator Taa at all. East Wing on lock down instead of taking the Chancellor captive personally to demand Ziro’s release? A team smart enough to effectively leverage the Senate Building’s defenses against itself like that isn’t going to risk their prize just to shake the Chancellor’s ancient, clammy hand. It’s ultimately irrelevant, though. One team _must_ secure the Supreme Chancellor.

The QRF is assembled in the hangar, the four LAAT/Is ready for take-off. Thorn, Fox’s second, hesitates with one foot in the transport when he spots him. Time slows as he realizes the full weight of the choice he has to make. One of them will attend to the Chancellor while the other responds to the hostage crisis. He ranks. He’s supposed to prioritize the chief of state. The Chancellor is safe, though. The chance for action, the allure of adrenaline, life’s gamble, lies with the hostages. That should be enough to send Thorn to the Chancellor’s side. It always had been.

But Fox is a broken soldier.

And Chuchi is in danger.

The chance of death doesn’t seem so compelling when it’s his-- when it’s a-- when it’s _her_ life on the line. Her life, held for Ziro’s release. Ziro the fucking Hutt. His last field operation almost a year ago. Not even a _whole year_ and his last real job as a soldier is already undone.

His resolve settles.

Time flows forward again and he nods at Thorn, sending him orders through the HUD as he boards the other strike team’s LAAT/Is and braces himself for liftoff.

\------------

The two LAAT/Is are still a meter off the ground when his troopers spill out from the transports. His boots could only absorb so much shock, the rest jarring his knees and even his hips as he lands on the unforgiving landing pad. He recovers quickly, determination and focus easily overcoming the pain. His team fans out and train their sights on the five bounty hunters exiting the Senate Building. The bounty hunters keep a languish pace, unconcerned by the aggressively postured shock troopers. 

“Hold fire,” he commands through their internal comms. To his left and right his troopers mantle a stillness nat-borns uniformly find unnerving. And still, the bounty hunters draw nearer.

“Sir?” Jung asks anxiously.

“Hold.” By the time Fox can recognize the two most prolific members, Cad Bane and Aurra Sing, he realizes the situation is solidly _not_ in their favor. Yes, with two full squads of troopers they will likely succeed in subduing the five, though he’s sure the two sharpshooters will take as many clones to hell with them-- he drags his thumb against the safety longingly-- but they aren’t stupid. In fact, Cad Bane and Aurra Sing are two of the most infamously evasive bounty hunters in the entire galaxy. They would not be brazenly marching at a firing squad unless they were beyond confident in their strategy. His eyes flick to the Senate Building, its usually luminous windows dark and foreboding. Their strategy. Their leverage. The Senators.

“Jung, as covert as you can, break off with the EOD team and prepare to make a run for the doors.”

Jung responds in the affirmative, him and two other troopers hopping back into the LAAT/I as the rest of the line expands to fill the gaps.

Now ground level with them, Cad Bane comes to a halt. A communicator springs to life in his palm, displaying a grainy blue image of the Chancellor flanked by Thorn and another trooper. Looks like his assessment was correct. “You were foolish to think you could get away with this, bounty hunter,” the Chancellor sneers. “Now lay down your arms and come quietly.”

Fox grinds his teeth. What an ineffectual, grandstanding--

“No, Chancellor,” Cad Bane drawls, “I’m afraid it is _you_ who have been foolish with your Senators’ lives.” He pauses long enough for the Chancellor to get a good look at his smug expression. “One false move and the East Wing of the Senate Building goes up in smoke.”

The longer the silence grows, the more Fox’s faith in the Republic withers. When the Chancellor finally speaks, he finds himself amazed the politician can continue to stand without a spine to support him. “You win, bounty hunter.” The hologram winks out and Bane casually pockets the disc, not even giving Fox’s team the dignity of a wary eye.

Then the bounty hunter looks up and commands with a self-satisfied snarl: “Holster ‘em.”

He hesitates. For the second time in a day, he’s hesitating. They can open fire. They can disregard the Chancellor’s shameful surrender and take honor into their own hands. Yes, many of his team will die, but they were _made_ for that. It’s their purpose and if they can achieve a victory in the process, all the better. So what if a few Senators die? So what if a _lot_ of Senators die? Were they really any better than clones who gave their lives every day? Were they any better than the criminals in front of him?

Bane holds up what Fox assumes is an explosives trigger and shakes it impatiently. And it… oddly makes a metallic _clinking_. A very specific metallic _clinking_ , one that summons images of purple and blue and gold, the sweet taste of desserts, scent of determination, and the feel… of peace. He fights against it, tries to hold onto the betrayal and rage instead, but it only wavers more. She’s in his head now. And she’s smiling.

Fucking Senators.

He lowers his blaster. “Stand down.”

If his troopers are surprised, they’re too disciplined to show it. As one, they angle their weapons away from the bounty hunters, who walk through their line as if they are nothing more than statues.

“Jung?” He asks quietly on internal comms.

“Standing by.”

Fox waits until the very second the bounty hunters pull away from the pad, Ziro trailing in an attached car. “ _Move!_ ” In the corner of his visor he sees the heavily-armored EOD team shuffle out from the LAAT/Is. He doesn’t wait for them, taking the stairs two at a time, unburdened by concussion-resistant armor. Halfway up, he hears something in his spine crack. There’s no pain though, he convinces himself there’s no pain. There’s only what’s ahead. But it slows him, his EOD team is only a few meters behind when the doors automatically hiss open for him.

He can see them, a group of Senators huddled in the middle of the foyer, trip-lights keeping them corralled. There’s a _snap-buzz_ of a lightsaber and a vivid blue light illuminates the dim interior. He continues his hobbled sprint, eyes quickly scanning the hall and identifying the several-- _haraan_ , several?!-- high-explosive charges arrayed on the supporting columns. They’ll have to work fast to disarm that many, he doesn’t trust Bane to keep his word--

“Commander Fox?”

Like a compass to north, he faces her, distantly aware of his EOD team filing in behind him. Her smile is brilliant, even if there are tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, but it doesn’t last long. Her relief turns to confusion, her head swinging from him to-- Skywalker, why is he here? What is he doing, cutting directly into the floor with his lightsaber? Why would-- oh. He reaches the logical conclusion a second before Chuchi, but it’s no solace. He has to watch. Her eyes widen in abject horror, her face contorts with terror. She even moves for him, one arm reaching out while another Senator-- Amidala? Ah. Explains Skywalker.-- holds her in place as Skywalker finally completes the circle.

The floor drops, Chuchi’s mouth opens in a scream, but he doesn’t get to hear it. He closes his eyes and holds on to peace.

The bombs explode.

\------------

Padme is bewildered, arms wrapped around her inconsolable friend. “We shouldn’t go in there, it’s not safe! It’s not stable, _please_ , Riyo, the rescue teams will be here soon we’ll only get in the way.”

But Riyo makes no sign of understanding, heaving sobs wracking her small frame. She makes another desperate break and Padme struggles to keep a firm grip, taken aback at Riyo’s strength. Then they hear Troopers in the foyer-- “Commander’s down!”-- and Riyo breaks free, using a surprisingly skillful hold-breaking technique. Padme scrambles after her, ignoring Anakin’s shouts of warning.

“Fox!” Riyo screams, the terror in it raising all the hairs on the nape of Padme’s neck. She turns the corner and sees Riyo frozen, but only for a split second, diving for the clone half-buried in debris.

Padme coughs in the thick dust and stumbles her way through the crumbled foyer. “Riyo!”

Her only answer is a keening wail that guts her like a physical knife, stomach to sternum. She rushes over the rest of the debris, falling the last few feet to Riyo’s side. Riyo is desperately scrabbling at his cracked armor, but clearly has no idea how to remove it. And-- and they shouldn’t. If he has even a thread of life in him (the dark stain under him is growing larger, it’s murky with dust, it matches his armor paint, it’s seeping through Riyo’s clothes, _it’s awful, it’s awful, it’s awful_ ) if there’s even a thread of life in him, the armor is what’s holding it together.

Padme wraps both arms around Riyo again, pulling her back from the bod-- from Fox. She rocks them back and forth, comforting nonsense falling from her lips in every language she knows as Riyo sobs.

“Fox, you have to stay!” She pleads desperately, voice raw. Tears are prickling in Padme’s own eyes. “Fox, you promised. You _promised_.” Riyo lurches forward and Padme lurches with her, barely keeping them upright as Riyo grips his limp hand. “Fox, you-- you taught me, remember? You taught me. K’oyacyi. _K’oyacyi_. That’s-- that’s an order, okay? K’oyacyi!”

Padme burrows her face in Riyo’s neck, shoulders shaking with her own grief, grief for Riyo, as she listens to her repeat the word over and over and over, until the syllables themselves lose meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo. Uh. How's everyone doing?
> 
> 000 - slang for Coruscant, whose XYZ coordinates are 0,0,0  
> Alor - leader  
> Chakaar - petty criminal, corpse robber, general insult  
> Di’kute - idiots  
> Haraan - hell  
> Jetii - Jedi  
> K’oyacyi - Hello, lit. stay alive  
> QRF - Quick Response Force  
> Shabla - fucking  
> Vod/Vode - sibling/siblings  
> Vod’ika - diminutive form of sibling


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who commented last week! No content warnings for this chapter.

Bly really isn't a fan of funerals. 

Well, this probably counts more as a memorial. Right? You need bodies to have a funeral and it's hard to bury a body that's still living. Probably. There wasn’t any time to sneak in an extra Cultural Module before Wolffe hastily ushered them away from the classroom and he _fervently_ regrets doing anything other than studying for the past three cycles. He’s so lost in these strange rituals, these unfamiliar halls, so out of place in a world where every breath has a purpose.

The way the other command-track cadets are staring really doesn’t help, either. He shuffles behind Wolffe in the crowded service corridor, hoping to find refuge from their eyes. They all look the exact same, why can’t they stare at a mirror instead? Or just anybody else! He hasn’t seen a _single_ person their age who is physically different in any way. The only reason he can even tell the guy he’s hiding behind is Wolffe and not any other cadet is because Wolffe hasn’t left his side once since he woke up. That and the distinctive, threatening scowl he shoots at everyone else.

"You good, Bly'ika?"

He glances around to see who Wolffe’s addressing, remembering a second too late that _he’s_ “Bly’ika”. He winces. There are too many names. Full names, nicknames, pet names, in-jokes-- what was wrong with their perfectly good designations? CC-5052 is what he expected, heck, _wanted_ to be called! ...right until he saw Wolffe’s visceral reaction to it. A full-body flinch, one echoed in every other cadet when he was still trying to avoid the inevitable, as if they were witnessing a landmine explode instead of listening to an alphanumeric serial.

Wolffe is still waiting for an answer, clearly worried.

"Yeah, I'm fine,” Bly says with what he hopes is a comforting smile. “Thanks for asking." To his bewilderment and concern, Wolffe grimaces. He groans internally. Another landmine.

"We can't wait for Gree anymore," one of the other cadets says. Despite being the same age, he somehow carries authority in his tone and posture. Dang, what was his name? Aror? Alor? Wait, no-- Coat! Wolffe called him Coat'ika, right? Bly still didn’t have a good handle on honorifics so... he’ll drop the ‘ika. Just in case. "We've only got ten minutes max until the long-necks come looking for us. Doom, you wanted to lead?"

Doom-- that’s such a cool name! -- steps into the middle of the cramped half-circle and beckons Bly forward. He hesitates for only a moment before joining his brother. _Vod_? Probably supposed to call him _vod_.

"Normally," Doom begins in a grandiose voice, like the narrators in training simulations. "When a _vod_ disappears, he doesn't come back. Normally, we add his name to the Remembrances. _Nothing_ about this is normal. So we're going to improvise." Bly suddenly finds himself alone in the center as Doom melds back into the crowd and he tries not to shrink beneath all the unwanted attention.

"Our _vod_ still lives!" Doom announces to the muted cheers of the other cadets, careful not to draw attention to their ceremony. "And though he is changed, he is _not_ dead. Today is not a day for mourning, _vode_! It is a day of rebirth, a day of renewal, and cause for celebration. Today, we welcome B'Layari back from certain death and affirm that no matter what happens: _vode an_!"

At Doom's words, the intense cadet (Coat, his name is _Coat_ ) reaches out and grips Bly's shoulder so tightly he _knows_ there'll be a bruise later. "Vode an, B'Layari."

The other cadets quickly follow suit, reaching and grabbing Bly where they could-- Lokai had snatched a thumb while Colt loosely held two of his fingers. Wolffe clung to Bly's other hand, forcing Doom to hold on to a scrap of fabric at his elbow. A half dozen others, whose names he couldn’t remember for the life of him, settled for pressing in close.

It's the oddest thing he's ever experienced in his three days out of the tube. A whole squad of command-track clones, allegedly the best their batches had to offer, clinging to each other in the dark of a servant's corridor. He can smell the stale sweat on each of them, someone's bony knuckles are pressing awkwardly into his ribs, someone's breath _smells_ , and… and he's never felt so right. So loved, so… found.

"Ready?" Doom asks. “Together.”

Even in the moment, Bly knows _that_ Vode An would echo in his dreams, in his heart, in his _soul_ for the rest of his life. Why worry about that distant and mythical Republic the simulations are always droning about when he has _this_? This is more than worth fighting for.

\---

“Let go of me, Wolffe!” Bly hisses, eyes flicking to Fox waiting with arms crossed and a cocky smirk. The jerk did this on purpose, he just _had_ to wait until Wolffe was back from the ‘freshers to issue a challenge. He doesn’t even know how he’s tripped this landmine.

Wolffe grunts, but he isn’t looking at Bly at all. Even when he tugs on his sleeve, Wolffe’s attention is solely on Fox.

“No, I don’t care, don’t do it, _Wolffe, no_!”

Wolffe ignores him and stands in front of Bly, drawing himself out of his usual prowling, predatory posture to his full height.

Fox’s malicious grin grows even wider. “Aw, look at that. Big, bad Wolffe here to protect his master. I don’t think even Instructor Vau’s strill is so well trained as yours, Bly’ika.”

“Come on, Fox, why are you doing this?” He asks, pacing left and right to get a direct sightline only for Wolffe to consistently block his view. “There’s no point in fighting outside of training.”

Fox’s edged amusement evaporates. “Because you keep saying shit like _that_. I’d call you _dar’manda_ , but can you leave what you don’t remember being part of? Maybe you’re just _aruetii._ ”

The blood drains from his face. “Why would you _say--_ ”

No one hears his question. Wolffe charges at Fox, slamming him into the wall of sleeping pods with a reverberating _clang_. Fox immediately takes the fight to the ground, sweeping Wolffe at his ankles to force his fall. It’s all flailing limbs and full-force punches and the flash of teeth. Bly leaps forward, dodging a stray kick and trying to get between his two _vode_ , only to get a fist to his face. He falls back, dazed, and tries to make sense of the increasing volume in the bay. There are faces above him, shouting down, and--

Oh _no_ , they’ve woken everyone up. _Vode_ are sliding their pods out from the wall to heckle the fighting cadets below and calling bets. He can see Neyo swinging down from one of the highest pods and even though he can’t see his face, he knows it’s full of bloodlust. He struggles back to his feet and tries once more to break them apart before it turns into a bay-wide brawl.

_This_ time he gets completely pulled into the fight. One moment he’s shoving at Fox, trying to dislodge him from on top of Wolffe, and the next he’s on his back with Fox’s elbow on his neck. He pushes at Fox’s face and Fox leans more weight on his trachea. He’s choking-- and then he’s compulsively coughing when the weight abruptly disappears. He props himself up on his elbows, briefly spotting Neyo and Wolffe trading punches, before he’s slammed onto the floor again by--

His stomach plummets. Kote (not, Coat, it was never Coat’ika, it was _Kot’ika_ ) stares down not so much with emotion as with unyielding, uncompromising focus. Bly goes limp automatically, having _no_ desire to present as a threat to their Alor. He knows _that_ landmine. Kote nods curtly and stands.

“On the wall!” he commands. 

Bly struggles to his feet and presses himself against the gap between two extended pods. The fracas has grown to over a dozen cadets, fighting on their feet and on the ground in an indistinguishable mass-- he has no hope of spotting Wolffe in the crowd. Kote reaches out with an arm and grabs a _vod_ by the collar, forcibly jerking him off another cadet and throwing him face-first into the corner of a pod. The cadet (maybe Bacara?) catches himself in time and whirls around with a wild haymaker, only for Kote to catch his fist and hold it in place.

“ _Wall_.”

Bacara pales and immediately retreats from the fight. Kote extracts three more _vode_ before the rest figure out what’s going on. The crowd quickly disperses-- it hasn’t been going long enough for anyone to be limping-- until there’s only three still going. Wolffe’s one of them, he knows. If he had managed to get out, he would already be back at his side. But Bly’s alone. Fox isn’t though. He’s on the other wall playfully shoving Lokai, somehow smug even with a broken, bleeding nose. All told, the fight didn’t even last a whole minute.

Kote’s got his knee in someone’s back and the two left standing look spooked. “If you’re in your pod,” he roars, “go to karking sleep!”

Obediently, cadets slip their pods closed, though Bly can see quite a few that were left cracked to better listen in on what was sure to be a searing dressing-down.

Kote must have noticed, but he doesn’t call them out on it. Instead, he looks around at the battered cadets, confusion bleeding at the edges of his outrage. “What happened?”

Neyo rolls a shoulder, testing it for range of motion and otherwise unconcerned. “We were just blowing off some steam.”

“There’s combatives rooms for that,” Kote counters. “What the hell were you doing it in _here_ for?” Neyo shrugs and Kote rolls his eyes. “Who started this, then?”

Bly shifts his weight anxiously, eyes going from Kote, to Fox, to Wolffe, to Kote and round and round. Did _he_ start it or did Fox? Fox challenged him and Wolffe answered the challenge on his behalf, so if _he’s_ the common denominator it must be--

“Me,” Wolffe growls from his position on the floor.

Kote looks down as if he forgot he was kneeling on a _vod_ ’s back, then stands and offers a hand to Wolffe. For a heart-stopping moment, Wolffe’s got a glimmer in his eye like he’ll restart the fight then and there, but then he takes Kote’s hand and lets himself be hauled up.

“Again, Wolffe?” Kote sounds disappointed, not angry, and shame crashes over him. It doubles when he catches Kote’s exasperated glance toward him. “Who was it this time?”

He watches Wolffe bow his head and give a blustery sigh. “Fox.”

Kote nods tiredly. “Fox, Bly, on me. The rest of you make yourself scarce.”

He quietly detaches himself from the wall, keeping his gaze on Kote and diligently avoiding looking at Fox or Wolffe. Kote doesn’t say anything, turning on a heel and marching them all to the ‘freshers. Wolffe keeps trying to catch his eye.

Once they were in front of the sinks, Kote turns to them. “We’re over a decade old. You should know better than this.”

Fox grins, blood still in the grooves of his teeth. “Getting too old to fight, _Alor_?”

“Getting too old to be babysitting my own batch,” Kote deadpans. Fox _tch_ es, but Kote pointedly ignores it. “Any day now the Republic and the Jedi will come for us.” He takes a moment to look each of them in the eye. Bly manages to keep his eyes locked forward, though his head dips instinctively. Kote doesn’t bring attention to it. “We need to be in peak condition for their arrival. What will they think if they come to collect us and we’re bruised from fighting each other instead of focusing on our enemies?”

“ _If_ they come,” Fox mutters traitorously.

This time, Kote is sympathetic. “I know waiting is hard, but they will come. Didn’t you notice? Jango’s back.”

“He is?” Wolffe asks, suddenly much more interested in the lecture, but not in a way Bly would call healthy.

“He is,” Kote confirms with a nod. “And why else would he leave Kamino if not to inform the Jedi that we’re ready?”

“We were born ready,” Fox breathes.

“Evidently not, or else I wouldn’t catch you brawling in the sleeping bays like seven-year-olds just going through puberty.” It’s another deadpan delivery, but Bly can see Kote’s excited, too. There’s no jitters to give him away, just an extra level of precision and eagerness in every movement, as if he’s converting every ounce of anticipation into lethality.

“Look, Alor--”

“Stop calling me Alor, Fox.” Despite his sharp response, there’s a slight smile on Kote’s face. Stars. The Republic is really coming, isn’t it?

“Sure, Alor, but look, isn’t who’s in the ranks just as important as what the ranks look like?”

Bly looks at the ceiling. He already knows where this is going.

Kote’s back to frowning. He knows, too. “If we were going by looks alone I doubt you’d make the cut.”

“What!”

“ _And_ I know that every single one of us are ready for the fight,” he continues. “We’re _vode_. All of us. _Vode. An._ Fox. There’ll be fight and glory enough for all of us. We bear its weight _together_.”

“Yeah. _Mando’ade_ do.” Bly can sense Fox staring at him when he says it, but he refuses to acknowledge it, choosing to stare at soap residue on the mirrors ahead of him instead. He takes a moment to appreciate how their darker skin hides the anger and shame warming his face.

“Get your head out of your fourth point of contact.” Kote’s good cheer is definitely gone now.

Fox doesn’t have the sense to leave well enough alone. “You know it just as well as I do--!”

“ _You_ keep calling me Alor,” Kote cuts over him. “So do you believe in my leadership or not?”

“Oh, _now_ you play--”

“Do you or don’t you?” Kote takes a threatening step forward. Bly still won’t look over at Fox, but his stubborn silence speaks volumes. Kote drives on. “Because the next time I catch you or _anyone_ else gunning for Bly again, I’ll see to you _myself_. You want to talk about who’s _dar’manda_? Fighting your own _aliit_ , your own _vod_ is as _nu’mandokarla_ as it gets.”

The tension stretches painfully and Bly finally surrenders, looking at the pair through his peripherals. They’re almost nose-to-nose. Fox’s jaw is set and his nostrils are flared, breathing simultaneously rough and steady. Kote’s expression, though, is clear. Self-assured and determined. Fox might be feral in a fight, but Kote is nothing short of merciless. It would be quick, it would be violent, and it would be undisputed. They all know that. Fox most of all, so he turns away from Kote and storms out the ‘fresher without another word.

Bly finally lets out his breath. He rubs a hand over his face and opens his eyes to see Kote staring at him with an inscrutable look. He tenses again, but Kote addresses Wolffe instead. “Advertising your weakness on the mat is an invitation for your enemy to test it. Off the mat isn’t any different.”

Wolffe grunts.

It’s enough for Kote. “Clean yourself up,” he says, nodding at Wolffe’s completely disheveled uniform. “Get some rest. Full day of training tomorrow and, if we’re lucky, war the day after.”

Bly calls them to attention as Kote leaves. Wolffe waits until they can’t hear his footsteps before relaxing. Bly’s still tense.

“Bly’ika…”

He ignores him, just marches to the first aid station and tears disinfectants and bacta applicators from the dispensary. He focuses on his hands and opening the packaging. Not on his anger and hurt. Not on how his eyes feel bright and hot. Not on Wolffe.

“Bly’ika.”

The rags are finally free from the packaging and he pushes Wolffe into a sitting position on the metal bench. Wolffe looks up in askance and his face is a _complete_ mess. He must’ve broken Fox’s nose and had it bleed all over him, because there’s no way that’s all his. Idiot. Bly attacks him with the disinfectant, vigorously scrubbing the rag over his face much rougher than he needs to.

Wolffe scowls. “B’Layari--”

He slaps the rag down. “I’m _not_ B’Layari!”

It reverberates off the hard surfaces in the ‘fresher, endlessly echoing it back. Wolffe slightly angles his face away and assesses him with narrow eyes as they stare at each other. As if it’s _surprising_ that Bly’s angry, as if it’s _unexpected_ , because it’s not what _B’Layari_ \-- he mentally cuts himself off. There’s a white-pink drop of disinfectant sliding past Wolffe’s eye. Dammit. He picks the rag back up and gets back to task.

“Who else would you be?” Wolffe finally asks once Bly’s gotten through the worst of his left eyebrow. “You’ve always been B’Lay--”

“I’m _not_ , Wolffe.” This time he keeps his voice low. Hearing it once is enough. “Maybe I was, but I haven’t been since-- since the day they Reconditioned me.”

On cue, the full-body flinch. Landmine.

Wolffe looks away. His throat bobs. Once. Twice. “You’re still you.”

“Am I?” He dabs at a dried patch of blood on his cheek, not sure if it’s a scab. “I came out of that tube and asked you to call me by my designation. Does that sound like something B’Layari would ask?”

Wolffe doesn’t answer. His eyes are averted.

“Does it?” He repeats. “Look at me. Wolffe? Look at me.”

“So-- so what?” Wolffe rasps out, scrubbing a wrist on his cheekbone and ruining Bly’s progress. He’s still not looking at him. “Can’t fake the designation. Can’t fake the chip in your arm. You going to tell me that you’re not you?”

“I can’t fake memories I don’t have, either.” He methodically cleans the left cheekbone, the right cheekbone, the jawline, trying to work up the nerve for what he doesn’t want to say. “Fox is right. I’m not… I’m not a Mando’ad.”

Wolffe’s denial is both immediate and vehement. “The Cuy’val Dar trained you just as they did me, we’re _both_ Mando’ade.”

Bly leans back, wipe in hand. “But I don’t remember. Not the training, not the language, not our _aliit_.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem now, _vod_. You know as much of the language as the rest of us.”

He shakes his head and leans back in with the rag to work on the patches in his hairline. “That’s not the point--”

Wolffe grabs his wrist. Doesn’t seem to have any problem looking him in the eye now. “Then what is the point? Hm? You say you’re not B’Layari, you say you’re not Mando’ad. Who are you, then?”

Bly looks at the bloody rag. “I don’t even know how I got the name. I don’t even know what it means.”

Wolffe’s jaw muscles work, clenching and unclenching, before he finally nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.” He lets go of Bly’s wrist. “Don’t think it’s ever come up before.” He sighs. “Just keep,” he gestures vaguely at his face. “Fixing me up. Don’t wanna ruin my good looks before the Jedi get here.”

Bly huffs, but obliges. He’s almost done anyway. Shocking that none of that mess seemed to be Wolffe’s. Can’t take an admin class without a concussion, but can get through a ten-way fight just fine.

“...You used to be very loud. Outspoken. Brash.” Wolffe’s lips twitch and he looks up in that way he always does when he’s about to tell a joke at Bly’s expense. “You know you and Fox used to be thick as thieves?”

Bly scrunches his face in displeasure.

“Yeah, that’s how I felt about it, too.” Wolffe goes quiet for a bit before continuing. “One day, I came back with a name.”

“How did that happen?”

“Another story. For another day.” Wolffe sucks in a breath. At first Bly thinks he’s trying to distract from the conversation, but sure enough, he finds a small but deep gash on Wolffe’s temple. He’ll actually have to be gentle here. “Of course, Fox couldn’t stand the idea of me having something he didn’t.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah. Most of our _vode_ take at least a week to settle on a name. Fox had his in an hour. Don’t even know if he has a real meaning for his name or if it was the first thing he thought of. Notice it’s _awfully_ close to the theme of canid predators.”

He sets down the rag in exchange for the bacta gel. “What’s this got to do with my name?”

“Once Fox picked his name, he went right to working on yours. Started fine, but you weren’t in any hurry and he got frustrated that you weren’t latching onto any of his suggestions. Just to wheedle him more I started with my own ideas. They were…” Wolffe snorts. Bly waits until he’s settled again before tapping in the rest of the gel. “They were dumb. On purpose, but still. Pretty soon we were just hurling insults at each other, all three of us. I don’t remember who said it or even what it was, but after one pot-shot you said ‘stop! stop! my ego can’t take this anymore!’ and-- and it was just the funniest _osik_.” He laughs. Quiet, but full and warm. Bly watches him with his own smile and wishes it didn’t feel like they were talking about someone marching ahead. Oblivious, Wolffe waves his arms in mock defense. “‘B’Layari! B’Layari!’ One of the few times Fox and I laughed together, I think. You were good at that. Mediating our dumb _shebse_.”

He snorts, picking up all the used medical supplies. “Wish I was still good at that…”

Wolffe inclines his head but doesn’t seem melancholy about it. “Fox is a sha’buir. His attitude’s no one’s fault but his own.”

“So that’s how I got my name, huh? My best friends making fun of me?”

“Nah, it was funny but we were gonna let it lie.” Wolffe pointed at him. “ _You’re_ the one that would say it every time Fox was winding himself up or I was taking him too seriously. Said it so often all our _vode_ just started calling you that. Fox and I were the _last_ on board.”

Bly tries to smother his smile and fails completely. “Of course you were.”

“Never claimed we were smart. That’s _your_ poor assumption.”

“Yeah... Make a lot of those.” He drops the used supplies in the trash. “All sorts of landmines.”

Behind him, he hears Wolffe stand. “...c’mere, Bly’ika.” 

Bly turns and Wolffe pulls him forward by the back of his head with one hand, knocking their foreheads together affectionately. “I don’t care if you forget how to use a _vac tube_. You’re my brother. Today. Tomorrow. And every day after.”

Bly squeezes his eyes tight and wraps his arms around Wolffe’s shoulders. Wolffe pats his back roughly. “I’ll remember that the next time you try to shove latrine duty on me.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, _vod’ika_.”

Bly buries his face and tries not to get swept away with gratitude. He can hear an echo of Fox in his head, asking if his inability to control his emotions is what got him lobotomized in the first place, so he holds on for an extra few seconds just to spite the voice. When he finally steps back, Wolffe looks happier than he has in weeks. And Bly… Bly feels that way, too.

Wolffe stalks to the nearest mirror and examines his reflection. “Well, my face is a little brighter than usual, but maybe it’ll mean the Jedi will take a _shine_ to me, eh?”

Bly laughs, the last bubble of tension in his throat finally evaporating. “ _Di’kut_.”

Wolffe grins. “C’mon, Bly’ika, let’s get some beauty sleep.”

\-----

Three days later, a Jedi arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get too excited that I've posted twice in two weeks. I was gonna sit on this one for another week, but it looks really likely that work tempo is gonna ratchet back up again and I don't know when I'll get the next chapter out.
> 
> Aliit _-_ family/clan  
> Alor - leader  
> Aruetii _-_ traitor/foreigner/outsider. Fox was calling Bly an outsider.  
> B'Layari - Bly’s ‘original’ name (not at all canon), means overconfident/swaggering and when paired with the possessive b’, it means something along the lines of “my ego”  
> Cuy’val Dar - “those who no longer exist”; the 100 Mandalorians Jango recruited to disappear for the number of years it would take to secretly train clone soldiers. Pulling these guys from Legends Universe / the Republic Commando novels.  
> Dar’manda- a state of not being a Mando, does not apply to outsiders who were never Mando. This state is dreaded by traditionally-minded Mandos.  
> Mando’ade - lit. children of Mandalore, means Mandalorian  
> Nu’mandokarla - root adjective _mandokarla_ , to be the epitome of a Mando in action or attribute. Combined with the negator _nu’_ it becomes the opposite, an action not at all becoming of a Mandalorian.  
> Osik - shit  
> Shebse - asses  
> Strill - a vaguely dog-like predator with little to no fur, six legs, stink to high heaven, and has a lot of skinfolds that allow them to fly like sugar gliders. Valued for their hunting abilities.  
> Vod/Vode - Sibling/siblings  
> Vode An - “Siblings/comrades all” and also a damn good song whose lyrics I referenced a couple times in here (and will likely do it again in the future)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [when I'm with you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26213638) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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